REESE  LIBRARY  ' 

OF  THli 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.    : 


Cla&s  No.  • 


— u — u— u — ir 


POPULAR   EDITION 

OF  THE,  WORKS  OF 

BRET     HARTE 


Rearranged,  with  Portraits 

and    Introduction 

6  vols.  Crown  8vo 

Each,  $2.OO 


1.   POETICAL  WORKS 

With    an    Introduction    by    the 
Author,  and  Portrait. 


2.  THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING 

CAMP 

And  Other  Stories,  a  portion  of 
Tales  of  the  Argonauts,  etc. 

3.  TALES    OF   THE   ARGO 

NAUTS 

And  Eastern  Sketches. 

4.  GABRIEL  CONROY 

5.  STORIES        AND        CON 

DENSED  NOVELS 

b.   FRONTIER  STORIES 


HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN 
AND   COMPANY 


BOOKS  BY  BRET  HARTE 


For  complete  list  see 

pages  at  the  back 

of  this  volume 

i 


UNDER  THE  RED 
WOODS 


BY 


BRET ,  HARTE 

L«— •**" 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
fftitoetpi&e  $re££,  Cambribge  - 


RfESE 


COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY   BRET   HARTE 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER  FROM  CALIFORNIA  .  .  1 
THE  YOUNGEST  Miss  PIPER  ....  39 
A  WIDOW  OF  THE  SANTA  ANA  VALLEY  .  .71 
THE  MERMAID  OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT  .  .  103 

UNDER  THE  EAVES 140 

How  REUBEN  ALLEN  "  SAW  LIFE  "  IN  SAN  FRAN 
CISCO 177 

THREE  VAGABONDS  OF  TRINIDAD  .  .  .  .211 
A  VISION  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN  ....  237 
A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  LINE  .  .  .  .  .  257 
BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO  .  .  .  298 


118989 


2  JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER 

The  latter  was,  however,  not  quite  alone. 
He  was  ministered  to  by  Daddy  Folsom,  a 
weak  but  emotional  and  aggressively  hope 
ful  neighbor,  who  was  sitting  beside  the 
wooden  bunk  whereon  the  invalid  lay.  Yet 
there  was  something  perfunctory  in  his  atti 
tude  :  his  eyes  were  continually  straying  to 
the  window,  whence  the  illuminated  Falloner 
festivities  could  be  seen  between  the  trees, 
and  his  ears  were  more  intent  on  the  songs 
and  laughter  that  came  faintly  from  the 
distance  than  on  the  feverish  breathing  and 
unintelligible  moans  of  the  sufferer. 

Nevertheless,  he  looked  troubled  equally 
by  the  condition  of  his  charge  and  by  his 
own  enforced  absence  from  the  revels.  A 
more  impatient  moan  from  the  sick  man, 
however,  brought  a  change  to  his  abstracted 
face,  and  he  turned  to  him  with  an  exagger 
ated  expression  of  sympathy. 

"In  course!  Lordy!  I  know  jest  what 
those  pains  are:  kinder  ez  ef  you  was  havin' 
a  tooth  pulled  that  had  roots  branchin'  all 
over  ye !  My !  I  've  jest  had  'em  so  bad  I 
couldn't  keep  from  yellin'I  That's  hot 
rheumatics!  Yes,  sir,  I  oughter  know! 
And "  (confidentially)  "the  sing'ler  thing 
about  'em  is  that  they  get  worse  jest  as 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  3 

they  're  going  off  —  sorter  wringin'  yer 
hand  and  punchin'  ye  in  the  back  to  say 
4  Good-by. '  There !  "  he  continued,  as  the 
man  sank  exhaustedly  back  on  his  rude  pil 
low  of  flour-sacks.  "There!  didn't  I  tell 
ye?  Ye  '11  be  all  right  in  a  minit,  and  ez 
chipper  ez  a  jay  bird  in  the  mornin'.  Oh, 
don't  tell  me  about  rheumatics  —  I 've  bin 
thar!  On'y  mine  was  the  cold  kind  —  that 
hangs  on  longest  —  yours  is  the  hot,  that 
burns  itself  up  in  no  time!  " 

If  the  flushed  face  and  bright  eyes  of 
Lasham  were  not  enough  to  corroborate  this 
symptom  of  high  fever,  the  quick,  wander 
ing  laugh  he  gave  would  have  indicated  the 
point  of  delirium.  But  the  too  optimistic 
Daddy  Folsom  referred  this  act  to  improve 
ment,  and  went  on  cheerfully:  "Yes,  sir, 
you  're  better  now,  and  "  —  here  he  assumed 
an  air  of  cautious  deliberation,  extravagant, 
as  all  his  assumptions  were  —  "I  ain't  say- 
in'  that  —  ef  —  you  —  was  —  to  —  rise  — 
up"  (very  slowly)  "and  heave  a  blanket  or 
two  over  your  shoulders  —  jest  by  way  o' 
caution,  you  know  —  and  leanin'  on  me, 
kinder  meander  over  to  Bob  Falloner's  cabin 
and  the  boys,  it  wouldn't  do  you  a  heap  o' 
good.  Changes  o'  this  kind  is  often  pre- 


4  JIMMY'S  BIG   BROTHER 

scribed  by  the  faculty. "  Another  moan  from 
the  sufferer,  however,  here  apparently  cor 
rected  Daddy's  too  favorable  prognosis. 
"Oh,  all  right!  Well,  perhaps  ye  know 
best;  and  I'll  jest  run  over  to  Bob's  and 
say  how  as  ye  ain't  comin',  and  will  be  back 
in  a  jiffy!" 

"The  letter,"  said  the  sick  man  hur 
riedly,  "the  letter,  the  letter!  " 

Daddy  leaned  suddenly  over  the  bed.  It 
was  impossible  for  even  his  hopefulness  to 
avoid  the  fact  that  Lasham  was  delirious. 
It  was  a  strong  factor  in  the  case  —  one 
that  would  certainly  justify  his  going  over 
to  Falloner's  with  the  news.  For  the  pre 
sent  moment,  however,  this  aberration  was 
to  be  accepted  cheerfully  and  humored  after 
Daddy's  own  fashion.  "Of  course  —  the 
letter,  the  letter,"  he  said  convincingly; 
"that's  what  the  boys  hev  bin  singin'  jest 
now  — 

'  Good-by,  Charley  ;  when  you  are  away, 
Write  me  a  letter,  love  ;  send  me  a  letter,  love  !  ' 

That 's  what  you  heard,  and  a  mighty  purty 
song  it  is  too,  and  kinder  clings  to  you. 
It 's  wonderful  how  these  things  gets  in 
your  head." 

"  The    letter  —  write  —  send    money  — • 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  5 

money  —  money,  and  the  photograph  —  the 
photograph  —  photograph  —  money,"  con 
tinued  the  sick  man,  in  the  rapid  reiteration 
of  delirium. 

"  In  course  you  will  —  to-morrow  —  when 
the  mail  goes,"  returned  Daddy  soothingly; 
"plenty  of  them.  Jest  now  you  try  to  get  a 
snooze,  will  ye  ?  Hoi'  on !  —  take  some  o' 
this." 

There  was  an  anodyne  mixture  on  the 
rude  shelf,  which  the  doctor  had  left  on  his 
morning  visit.  Daddy  had  a  comfortable 
belief  that  what  would  relieve  pain  would 
also  check  delirium,  and  he  accordingly 
measured  out  a  dose  with  a  liberal  margin 
to  allow  of  waste  by  the  patient  in  swallow 
ing  in  his  semi-conscious  state.  As  he  lay 
more  quiet,  muttering  still,  but  now  unin 
telligibly,  Daddy,  waiting  for  a  more  com 
plete  unconsciousness  and  the  opportunity 
to  slip  away  to  Falloner's,  cast  his  eyes 
around  the  cabin.  He  noticed  now  for  the 
first  time  since  his  entrance  that  a  crumpled 
envelope  bearing  a  Western  post-mark  was 
lying  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Daddy  knew 
that  the  tri-weekly  post  had  arrived  an  hour 
before  he  came,  and  that  Lasham  had  evi 
dently  received  a  letter.  Sure  enough  the 


6  JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER 

letter  itself  was  lying  against  the  wall  be 
side  him.  It  was  open.  Daddy  felt  justi 
fied  in  reading  it. 

It  was  curt  and  business-like,  stating  that 
unless  Lasham  at  once  sent  a  remittance  for 
the  support  of  his  brother  and  sister  —  two 
children  in  charge  of  the  writer  —  they 
must  find  a  home  elsewhere.  That  the  ar 
rears  were  long  standing,  and  the  repeated 
promises  of  Lasham  to  send  money  had 
been  unfulfilled.  That  the  writer  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  This  would  be  his  last 
communication  unless  the  money  were  sent 
forthwith. 

It  was  by  no  means  a  novel  or,  under 
the  circumstances,  a  shocking  disclosure  to 
Daddy.  He  had  seen  similar  missives  from 
daughters,  and  even  wives,  consequent  on 
the  varying  fortunes  of  his  neighbors;  no 
one  knew  better  than  he  the  uncertainties 
of  a  miner's  prospects,  and  yet  the  inevi 
table  hopefulness  that  buoyed  him  up.  He 
tossed  it  aside  impatiently,  when  his  eye 
caught  a  strip  of  paper  he  had  overlooked 
lying  upon  the  blanket  near  the  envelope. 
It  contained  a  few  lines  in  an  unformed 
boyish  hand  addressed  to  "my  brother," 
and  evidently  slipped  into  the  letter  after  it 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  7 

was  written.     By  the  uncertain  candlelight 
Daddy  read  as  follows :  — 

Dear  Brother,  Kite  to  me  and  Cissy  rite 
off.  Why  aint  you  done  it?  It 's  so  long 
since  you  rote  any.  Mister  Recketts  ses 
you  dont  care  any  more.  Wen  you  rite 
send  your  fotograff.  Folks  here  ses  I  aint 
got  no  big  bruther  any  way,  as  I  disre- 
member  his  looks,  and  cant  say  wots  like 
him.  Cissy's  kryin'  all  along  of  it.  I  've 
got  a  hedake.  William  Walker  make  it 
ake  by  a  bio.  So  no  more  at  present  from 
your  loving  little  bruther  Jim. 

The  quick,  hysteric  laugh  with  which 
Daddy  read  this  was  quite  consistent  with 
his  responsive,  emotional  nature;  so,  too, 
were  the  ready  tears  that  sprang  to  his  eyes. 
He  put  the  candle  down  unsteadily,  with  a 
casual  glance  at  the  sick  man.  It  was  no 
table,  however,  that  this  look  contained  less 
sympathy  for  the  ailing  "big  brother  "  than 
his  emotion  might  have  suggested.  For 
Daddy  was  carried  quite  away  by  his  own 
mental  picture  of  the  helpless  children,  and 
eager  only  to  relate  his  impressions  of  the 
incident.  He  cast  another  glance  at  the 


8  JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER 

invalid,  thrust  the  papers  into  his  pocket, 
and  clapping  on  his  hat  slipped  from  the 
cabin  and  ran  to  the  house  of  festivity. 
Yet  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man,  and  so 
engrossed  was  he  by  his  one  idea,  that  to 
the  usual  inquiries  regarding  his  patient  he 
answered,  "He  's  all  right,"  and  plunged  at 
once  into  the  incident  of  the  dunning  letter, 
reserving  —  with  the  instinct  of  an  emo 
tional  artist  —  the  child's  missive  until  the 
last.  As  he  expected,  the  money  demand 
was  received  with  indignant  criticisms  of 
the  writer. 

"That 's  just  like  'em  in  the  States,"  said 
Captain  Fletcher;  "darned  if  they  don't 
believe  we  've  only  got  to  bore  a  hole  in  the 
ground  and  snake  out  a  hundred  dollars. 
Why,  there 's  my  wife  —  with  a  heap  of 
hoss  sense  in  everything  else  —  is  allus  won 
der  in'  why  I  can't  rake  in  a  cool  fifty  be 
twixt  one  steamer  day  and  another." 

"That's  nothin'  to  my  old  dad,"  inter 
rupted  Gus  Houston,  the  "infant"  of  the 
camp,  a  bright-eyed  young  fellow  of  twenty; 
"why,  he  wrote  to  me  yesterday  that  if  I  'd 
only  pick  up  a  single  piece  of  gold  every 
day  and  just  put  it  aside,  sayin'  4  That 's  for 
popper  and  mommer, '  and  not  fool  it  away 
—  it  would  be  all  they  'd  ask  of  me." 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  9 

"That's  so,"  added  another;  "these  ig 
norant  relations  is  just  the  ruin  o'  the  min 
ing  industry.  Bob  Falloner  hez  bin  lucky 
in  his  strike  to-day,  but  he  's  a  darned  sight 
luckier  in  being  without  kith  or  kin  that  he 
knows  of." 

Daddy  waited  until  the  momentary  irrita 
tion  had  subsided,  and  then  drew  the  other 
letter  from  his  pocket.  "That  ain't  all, 
boys,"  he  began  in  a  faltering  voice,  but 
gradually  working  himself  up  to  a  pitch  of 
pathos;  "just  as  I  was  thinking  all  them 
very  things,  I  kinder  noticed  this  yer  poor 
little  bit  o'  paper  lyin'  thar  lonesome  like 
and  forgotten,  and  I  —  read  it — and  well 
—  gentlemen  —  it  just  choked  me  right 
up !  "  He  stopped,  and  his  voice  faltered. 

"Go  slow,  Daddy,  go  slow!  "  said  an  au 
ditor  smilingly.  It  was  evident  that  Dad 
dy's  sympathetic  weakness  was  well  known. 

Daddy  read  the  child's  letter.  But,  un 
fortunately,  what  with  his  real  emotion  and 
the  intoxication  of  an  audience,  he  read  it 
extravagantly,  and  interpolated  a  child's 
lisp  (on  no  authority  whatever),  and  a  sim 
ulated  infantile  delivery,  which,  I  fear,  at 
first  provoked  the  smiles  rather  than  the 
tears  of  his  audience.  Nevertheless,  at  its 


10  JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER 

conclusion  the  little  note  was  handed  round 
the  party,  and  then  there  was  a  moment  of 
thoughtful  silence. 

"Tell  you  what  it  is,  boys,"  said  Fletcher, 
looking  around  the  table,  "we  ought  to  be 
doin'  suthin'  for  them  kids  right  off!  Did 
you,"  turning  to  Daddy,  "say  anythin' 
about  this  to  Dick?" 

"Nary  —  why,  he's  clean  off  his  head 
with  fever  —  don't  understand  a  word  — 
and  just  babbles,"  returned  Daddy,  forget 
ful  of  his  roseate  diagnosis  a  moment  ago, 
"and  hasn't  got  a  cent." 

"We  must  make  up  what  we  can  amongst 
us  afore  the  mail  goes  to-night,"  said  the 
"infant,"  feeling  hurriedly  in  his  pockets. 
"Come,  ante  up,  gentlemen,"  he  added,  lay 
ing  the  contents  of  his  buckskin  purse  upon 
the  table. 

"Hold  on,  boys,"  said  a  quiet  voice.  It 
was  their  host  Falloner,  who  had  just  risen 
and  was  slipping  on  his  oilskin  coat. 
"You've  got  enough  to  do,  I  reckon,  to 
look  after  your  own  folks.  I  've  none ! 
Let  this  be  my  affair.  I  've  got  to  go  to 
the  Express  Office  anyhow  to  see  about  my 
passage  home,  and  I  '11  just  get  a  draft  for 
a  hundred  dollars  for  that  old  skeesicks  — 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  11 

what 's  his  blamed  name  ?  Oh,  Eicketts  " 
• —  he  made  a  memorandum  from  the  letter 
—  "and  I'll  send  it  by  express.  Mean 
time,  you  fellows  sit  down  there  and  write 
something  —  you  know  what  —  saying  that 
Dick  's  hurt  his  hand  and  can't  write  —  you 
know;  but  asked  you  to  send  a  draft,  which 
you're  doing.  Sabe?  That's  all!  I'll 
skip  over  to  the  express  now  and  get  the 
draft  off,  and  you  can  mail  the  letter  an 
hour  later.  So  put  your  dust  back  in  your 
pockets  and  help  yourselves  to  the  whiskey 
while  I  'm  gone."  He  clapped  his  hat  on 
his  head  and  disappeared. 

"There  goes  a  white  man,  you  bet! "  said 
Fletcher  admiringly,  as  the  door  closed  be 
hind  their  host.  "Now,  boys,"  he  added, 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  table,  "let 's  get  this 
yer  letter  off,  and  then  go  back  to  our 
game." 

Pens  and  ink  were  produced,  and  an  ani 
mated  discussion  ensued  as  to  the  matter  to 
be  conveyed.  Daddy's  plea  for  an  extended 
explanatory  and  sympathetic  communica 
tion  was  overruled,  and  the  letter  was  writ 
ten  to  Ricketts  on  the  simple  lines  sug 
gested  by  Falloner. 

"But  what  about  poor  little  Jim's  letter? 


12  JIMMY'S  BIG   BROTHER 

That  ought  to  be  answered,"  said  Daddy 
pathetically. 

"If  Dick  hurt  his  hand  so  he  can't  write 
to  Kicketts,  how  in  thunder  is  he  goin'  to 
write  to  Jim?  "  was  the  reply. 

"But  suthin'  oughter  be  said  to  the  poor 
kid,"  urged  Daddy  piteously. 

"Well,  write  it  yourself  —  you  and  Gus 
Houston  make  up  somethin'  together.  I  'm 
going  to  win  some  money,"  retorted  Fletcher, 
returning  to  the  card-table,  where  he  was 
presently  followed  by  all  but  Daddy  and 
Houston. 

"Ye  can't  write  it  in  Dick's  name,  be 
cause  that  little  brother  knows  Dick's  hand 
writing,  even  if  he  don't  remember  his  face. 
See?"  suggested  Houston. 

"That's  so,"  said  Daddy  dubiously; 
"but,"  he  added,  with  elastic  cheerfulness, 
"we  can  write  that  Dick  '  says.'  See?" 

"Your  head's  level,  old  man!  Just  you 
wade  in  on  that." 

Daddy  seized  the  pen  and  "waded  in." 
Into  somewhat  deep  and  difficult  water, 
I  fancy,  for  some  of  it  splashed  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  sniffled  once  or  twice  as  he 
wrote.  "Suthin'  like  this,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause :  — 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  13 

DEAR  LITTLE  JIMMIE,  —  Your  big  bro 
ther  havin'  hurt  his  hand,  wants  me  to  tell 
you  that  otherways  he  is  all  hunky  and  Al. 
He  says  he  don't  forget  you  and  little  Cissy, 
you  bet!  and  he  's  sendin'  money  to  old 
Eicketts  straight  off.  He  says  don't  you 
and  Cissy  mind  whether  school  keeps  or  not 
as  long  as  big  Brother  Dick  holds  the  lines. 
He  says  he  'd  have  written  before,  but  he  's 
bin  follerin'  up  a  lead  mighty  close,  and 
expects  to  strike  it  rich  in  a  few  days. 

"You  ain't  got  no  sabe  about  kids,"  said 
Daddy  imperturbably;  "they've  got  to  be 
humored  like  sick  folks.  And  they  want 
everythin'  big  —  they  don't  take  no  stock 
in  things  ez  they  are  —  even  ef  they  hev 
'em  worse  than  they  are.  '  So,'  "  continued 
Daddy,  reading  to  prevent  further  interrup 
tion,  "'he  says  you're  just  to  keep  your 
eyes  skinned  lookin'  out  for  him  comin' 
home  any  time  —  day  or  night.  All  you  've 
got  to  do  is  to  sit  up  and  wait.  He  might 
come  and  even  snake  you  out  of  your  beds ! 
He  might  come  with  four  white  horses  and 
a  nigger  driver,  or  he  might  come  disguised 
as  an  ornary  tramp.  Only  you  've  got  to 
be  keen  on  watchinV  (Ye  see,"  inter- 


14  JIMMTS  BIG  BROTHER 

rupted  Daddy  explanatorily,  "that'll  jest 
keep  them  kids  lively.)  '  He  says  Cis 
sy's  to  stop  cry  in'  right  off,  and  if  Willie 
Walker  hits  yer  on  the  right  cheek  you  just 
slug  out  with  your  left  fist,  'cordin'  to 
Scripter.'  Gosh,"  ejaculated  Daddy,  stop 
ping  suddenly  and  gazing  anxiously  at 
Houston,  "there's  that  blamed  photograph 
—  I  clean  forgot  that." 

"And  Dick  hasn't  got  one  in  the  shop, 
and  never  had,"  returned  Houston  emphati 
cally.  "Golly!  that  stumps  us!  Unless," 
he  added,  with  diabolical  thoughtfulness, 
"we  take  Bob's?  The  kids  don't  remember 
Dick's  face,  and  Bob  's  about  the  same  age. 
And  it's  a  regular  star  picture  —  you  bet! 
Bob  had  it  taken  in  Sacramento  —  in  all  his 
war  paint.  See!"  He  indicated  a  photo 
graph  pinned  against  the  wall  —  a  really 
striking  likeness  which  did  full  justice  to 
Bob's  long  silken  mustache  and  large, 
brown  determined  eyes.  "  I  '11  snake  it  off 
while  they  ain't  lookin',  and  you  jam  it  in 
the  letter.  Bob  won't  miss  it,  and  we  can 
fix  it  up  with  Dick  after  he  's  well,  and  send 
another." 

Daddy  silently  grasped  the  "infant's" 
hand,  who  presently  secured  the  photograph 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  15 

without  attracting  attention  from  the  card- 
players.  It  was  promptly  inclosed  in  the 
letter,  addressed  to  Master  James  Lasham. 
The  "infant"  started  with  it  to  the  post- 
office,  and  Daddy  Folsom  returned  to  Lash- 
am 's  cabin  to  relieve  the  watcher  that  had 
been  detached  from  Falloner's  to  take  his 
place  beside  the  sick  man. 

Meanwhile  the  rain  fell  steadily  and  the 
shadows  crept  higher  and  higher  up  the 
mountain.  Towards  midnight  the  star 
points  faded  out  one  by  one  over  Sawyer's 
Ledge  even  as  they  had  come,  with  the  dif 
ference  that  the  illumination  of  Falloner's 
cabin  was  extinguished  first,  while  the  dim 
light  of  Lasham 's  increased  in  number. 
Later,  two  stars  seemed  to  shoot  from  the 
centre  of  the  ledge,  trailing  along  the  de 
scent,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  obscurity 
of  the  slope  —  the  lights  of  the  stage-coach 
to  Sacramento  carrying  the  mail  and  Kob- 
ert  Falloner.  They  met  and  passed  two 
fainter  lights  toiling  up  the  road  —  the 
buggy  lights  of  the  doctor,  hastily  sum 
moned  from  Carterville  to  the  bedside  of 
the  dying  Dick  Lasham. 

The  slowing  up  of  his  train  caused  Bob 


16  JIMMY'S  BIG   BROTHER 

Falloner  to  start  from  a  half  doze  in  a 
Western  Pullman  car.  As  he  glanced  from 
his  window  he  could  see  that  the  blinding 
snowstorm  which  had  followed  him  for  the 
past  six  hours  had  at  last  hopelessly  blocked 
the  line.  There  was  no  prospect  beyond 
the  interminable  snowy  level,  the  whirling 
flakes,  and  the  monotonous  palisades  of 
leafless  trees  seen  through  it  to  the  distant 
banks  of  the  Missouri.  It  was  a  prospect 
that  the  mountain -bred  Falloner  was  begin 
ning  to  loathe,  and  although  it  was  scarcely 
six  weeks  since  he  left  California,  he  was 
already  looking  back  regretfully  to  the  deep 
slopes  and  the  free  song  of  the  serried  ranks 
of  pines. 

The  intense  cold  had  chilled  his  temperate 
blood,  even  as  the  rigors  and  conventions 
of  Eastern  life  had  checked  his  sincerity 
and  spontaneous  flow  of  animal  spirits  be 
gotten  in  the  frank  intercourse  and  brother 
hood  of  camps.  He  had  just  fled  from  the 
artificialities  of  the  great  Atlantic  cities  to 
seek  out  some  Western  farming  lands  in 
which  he  might  put  his  capital  and  energies. 
The  unlooked-for  interruption  of  his  pro 
gress  by  a  long-forgotten  climate  only  deep 
ened  his  discontent.  And  now  —  that  train 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  17 

was  actually  backing!  It  appeared  they 
must  return  to  the  last  station  to  wait  for 
a  snow-plough  to  clear  the  line.  It  was, 
explained  the  conductor,  barely  a  mile  from 
Shepherdstown,  where  there  was  a  good 
hotel  and  a  chance  of  breaking  the  journey 
for  the  night. 

Shepherdstown !  The  name  touched  some 
dim  chord  in  Bob  Falloner's  memory  and 
conscience  —  yet  one  that  was  vague.  Then 
he  suddenly  remembered  that  before  leaving 
New  York  he  had  received  a  letter  from 
Houston  informing  him  of  Lasham's  death, 
reminding  him  of  his  previous  bounty,  and 
begging  him  —  if  he  went  West  —  to  break 
the  news  to  the  Lasham  family.  There  was 
also  some  allusion  to  a  joke  about  his  (Bob's) 
photograph,  which  he  had  dismissed  as  un 
important,  and  even  now  could  not  remem 
ber  clearly.  For  a  few  moments  his  con 
science  pricked  him  that  he  should  have  for 
gotten  it  all,  but  now  he  could  make  amends 
by  this  providential  delay.  It  was  not  a 
task  to  his  liking;  in  any  other  circum 
stances  he  would  have  written,  but  he  would 
not  shirk  it  now. 

Shepherdstown  was  on  the  main  line  of 
the  Kansas  Pacific  Eoad,  and  as  he  alighted 


18  JIMMY'S   BIG   BROTHER 

at  its  station,  the  big  through  trains  from 
San  Francisco  swept  out  of  the  stormy  dis 
tance  and  stopped  also.  He  remembered, 
as  he  mingled  with  the  passengers,  hearing 
a  childish  voice  ask  if  this  was  the  Califor- 
nian  train.  He  remembered  hearing  the 
amused  and  patient  reply  of  the  station- 
master:  "Yes,  sonny  —  here  she  is  again, 
and  here  's  her  passengers,"  as  he  got  into 
the  omnibus  and  drove  to  the  hotel.  Here 
he  resolved  to  perform  his  disagreeable  duty 
as  quickly  as  possible,  and  on  his  way  to 
his  room  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  office 
to  ask  for  Eicketts'  address.  The  clerk, 
after  a  quick  glance  of  curiosity  at  his  new 
guest,  gave  it  to  him  readily,  with  a  some 
what  familiar  smile.  It  struck  Falloner 
also  as  being  odd  that  he  had  not  been 
asked  to  write  his  name  on  the  hotel  regis 
ter,  but  this  was  a  saving  of  time  he  was 
not  disposed  to  question,  as  he  had  already 
determined  to  make  his  visit  to  Ricketts  at 
once,  before  dinner.  It  was  still  early  even 
ing. 

He  was  washing  his  hands  in  his  bedroom 
when  there  came  a  light  tap  at  his  sitting- 
room  door.  Falloner  quickly  resumed  his 
coat  and  entered  the  sitting-room  as  the 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  19 

porter  ushered  in  a  young  lady  holding  a 
small  boy  by  the  hand.  But,  to  Falloner's 
utter  consternation,  no  sooner  had  the  door 
closed  on  the  servant  than  the  boy,  with 
a  half -apologetic  glance  at  the  young  lady, 
uttered  a  childish  cry,  broke  from  her,  and 
calling,  "Dick!  Dick!"  ran  forward  and 
leaped  into  Falloner's  arms. 

The  mere  shock  of  the  onset  and  his  own 
amazement  left  Bob  without  breath  for 
words.  The  boy,  with  arms  convulsively 
clasping  his  body,  was  imprinting  kisses 
on  Bob's  waistcoat  in  default  of  reaching 
his  face.  At  last  Falloner  managed  gently 
but  firmly  to  free  himself,  and  turned  a 
half-appealing,  half-embarrassed  look  upon 
the  young  lady,  whose  own  face,  however, 
suddenly  flushed  pink.  To  add  to  the  con 
fusion,  the  boy,  in  some  reaction  of  in 
stinct,  suddenly  ran  back  to  her,  frantically 
clutched  at  her  skirts,  and  tried  to  bury  his 
head  in  their  folds. 

"He  don't  love  me,"  he  sobbed.  "He 
don't  care  for  me  any  more." 

The  face  of  the  young  girl  changed.  It 
was  a  pretty  face  in  its  flushing;  in  the 
paleness  and  thoughtfulness  that  overcast  it 
it  was  a  striking  face,  and  Bob's  attention 


20  JIMMTS  BIG   BROTHER 

was  for  a  moment  distracted  from  the  gro- 
tesqueness  of  the  situation.  Leaning  over 
the  boy  she  said  in  a  caressing  yet  authori 
tative  voice,  "Kun  away  for  a  moment, 
dear,  until  I  call  you,"  opening  the  door 
for  him  in  a  maternal  way  so  inconsistent 
with  the  youthfulness  of  her  figure  that  it 
struck  him  even  in  his  confusion.  There 
was  something  also  in  her  dress  and  car 
riage  that  equally  affected  him:  her  gar 
ments  were  somewhat  old-fashioned  in  style, 
yet  of  good  material,  with  an  odd  incon 
gruity  to  the  climate  and  season. 

Under  her  rough  outer  cloak  she  wore  a 
polka  jacket  and  the  thinnest  of  summer 
blouses;  and  her  hat,  though  dark,  was  of 
rough  straw,  plainly  trimmed.  Neverthe 
less,  these  peculiarities  were  carried  off 
with  an  air  of  breeding  and  self-possession 
that  was  unmistakable.  It  was  possible 
that  her  cool  self-possession  might  have 
been  due  to  some  instinctive  antagonism, 
for  as  she  came  a  step  forward  with  coldly 
and  clearly-opened  gray  eyes,  he  was  vaguely 
conscious  that  she  didn't  like  him.  Never 
theless,  her  manner  was  formally  polite, 
even,  as  he  fancied,  to  the  point  of  irony, 
as  she  began,  in  a  voice  that  occasionally 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  21 

dropped  into  the  lazy  Southern  intonation, 
and  a  speech  that  easily  slipped  at  times 
into  Southern  dialect :  — 

"I  sent  the  child  out  of  the  room,  as  I 
could  see  that  his  advances  were  annoying 
to  you,  and  a  good  deal,  I  reckon,  because 
I  knew  your  reception  of  them  was  still 
more  painful  to  him.  It  is  quite  natural,  I 
dare  say,  you  should  feel  as  you  do,  and  I 
reckon  consistent  with  your  attitude  to 
wards  him.  But  you  must  make  some  al 
lowance  for  the  depth  of  his  feelings,  and 
how  he  has  looked  forward  to  this  meeting. 
When  I  tell  you  that  ever  since  he  received 
your  last  letter,  he  and  his  sister  —  until 
her  illness  kept  her  home  —  have  gone  every 
day  when  the  Pacific  train  was  due  to  the 
station  to  meet  you;  that  they  have  taken 
literally  as  Gospel  truth  every  word  of  your 
letter  "  — 

"My  letter?  "  interrupted  Falloner. 

The  young  girl's  scarlet  lip  curled  slightly. 
"1  beg  your  pardon  —  I  should  have  said 
the  letter  you  dictated.  Of  course  it  was  n't 
in  your  handwriting  —  you  had  hurt  your 
hand,  you  know,"  she  added  ironically. 
"At  all  events,  they  believed  it  all  —  that 
you  were  coming  at  any  moment ;  they  lived 


22  JIMMY'S   BIG   BROTHER 

in  that  belief,  and  the  poor  things  went  to 
the  station  with  your  photograph  in  their 
hands  so  that  they  might  be  the  first  to 
recognize  and  greet  you." 

"With  my  photograph?"  interrupted 
Falloner  again. 

The  young  girl's  clear  eyes  darkened 
ominously.  "I  reckon,"  she  said  deliber 
ately,  as  she  slowly  drew  from  her  pocket 
the  photograph  Daddy  Folsom  had  sent, 
"that  that  is  your  photograph.  It  certainly 
seems  an  excellent  likeness,"  she  added,  re 
garding  him  with  a  slight  suggestion  of 
contemptuous  triumph. 

In  an  instant  the  revelation  of  the  whole 
mystery  flashed  upon  him!  The  forgotten 
passage  in  Houston's  letter  about  the  stolen 
photograph  stood  clearly  before  him;  the 
coincidence  of  his  appearance  in  Shepherds- 
town,  and  the  natural  mistake  of  the  chil 
dren  and  their  fair  protector,  were  made 
perfectly  plain.  But  with  this  relief  and 
the  certainty  that  he  could  confound  her 
with  an  explanation  came  a  certain  mis 
chievous  desire  to  prolong  the  situation  and 
increase  his  triumph.  She  certainly  had 
not  shown  him  any  favor. 

"Have  you  got  the  letter  also? "  he  asked 
quietly. 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  23 

She  whisked  it  impatiently  from  her 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  him.  As  he  read 
Daddy's  characteristic  extravagance  and 
recognized  the  familiar  idiosyncrasies  of  his 
old  companions,  he  was  unable  to  restrain 
a  smile.  He  raised  his  eyes,  to  meet  with 
surprise  the  fair  stranger's  leveled  eyebrows 
and  brightly  indignant  eyes,  in  which,  how 
ever,  the  rain  was  fast  gathering  with  the 
lightning. 

"It  may  be  amusing  to  you,  and  I  reckon 
likely  it  was  all  a  California  joke,"  she  said 
with  slightly  trembling  lips;  "I  don't  know 
No 'them  gentlemen  and  their  ways,  and 
you  seem  to  have  forgotten  our  ways  as  you 
have  your  kindred.  Perhaps  all  this  may 
seem  so  funny  to  them:  it  may  not  seem 
funny  to  that  boy  who  is  now  crying  his 
heart  out  in  the  hall;  it  may  not  be  very 
amusing  to  that  poor  Cissy  in  her  sick-bed 
longing  to  see  her  brother.  It  may  be  so 
far  from  amusing  to  her,  that  I  should  hesi 
tate  to  bring  you  there  in  her  excited  condi 
tion  and  subject  her  to  the  pain  that  you 
have  caused  him.  But  I  have  promised 
her;  she  is  already  expecting  us,  and  the 
disappointment  may  be  dangerous,  and  I 
can  only  implore  you  —  for  a  few  moments 


24  JIMMTS  BIG   BROTHER 

at  least  —  to  show  a  little  more  affection 
than  you  feel."  As  he  made  an  impulsive, 
deprecating  gesture,  yet  without  changing 
his  look  of  restrained  amusement,  she 
stopped  him  hopelessly.  "Oh,  of  course, 
yes,  yes,  I  know  it  is  years  since  you  have 
seen  them;  they  have  no  right  to  expect 
more;  only  — only  —  feeling  as  you  do," 
she  burst  impulsively,  "  why  —  oh,  why  did 
you  come?  " 

Here  was  Bob's  chance.  He  turned  to 
her  politely;  began  gravely,  "I  simply 
came  to  "  —  when  suddenly  his  face 
changed ;  he  stopped  as  if  struck  by  a  blow. 
His  cheek  flushed,  and  then  paled!  Good 
God!  What  had  he  come  for?  To  tell 
them  that  this  brother  they  were  longing  for 
—  living  for  —  perhaps  even  dying  for  — 
was  dead!  In  his  crass  stupidity,  his 
wounded  vanity  over  the  scorn  of  the  young 
girl,  his  anticipation  of  triumph,  he  had 
forgotten  —  totally  forgotten  —  what  that 
triumph  meant!  Perhaps  if  he  had  felt 
more  keenly  the  death  of  Lasham  the 
thought  of  it  would  have  been  uppermost 
in  his  mind ;  but  Lasham  was  not  his  part 
ner  or  associate,  only  a  brother  miner,  and 
his  single  act  of  generosity  was  in  the  ordi- 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  25 

nary  routine  of  camp  life.  If  she  could 
think  him  cold  and  heartless  before,  what 
would  she  think  of  him  now?  The  ab 
surdity  of  her  mistake  had  vanished  in  the 
grim  tragedy  he  had  seemed  to  have  cruelly 
prepared  for  her.  The  thought  struck  him 
so  keenly  that  he  stammered,  faltered,  and 
sank  helplessly  into  a  chair. 

The  shock  that  he  had  received  was  so 
plain  to  her  that  her  own  indignation  went 
out  in  the  breath  of  it.  Her  lip  quivered. 
"Don't  you  mind,"  she  said  hurriedly, 
dropping  into  her  Southern  speech;  "I 
didn't  go  to  hurt  you,  but  I  was  just  that 
mad  with  the  thought  of  those  pickaninnies, 
and  the  easy  way  you  took  it,  that  I  clean 
forgot  I  'd  no  call  to  catechise  you  I  And 
you  don't  know  me  from  the  Queen  of 
Sheba.  Well,"  she  went  on,  still  more 
rapidly,  and  in  odd  distinction  to  her  pre 
vious  formal  slow  Southern  delivery,  "  I  'm 
the  daughter  of  Colonel  Boutelle,  of  Bayou 
Sara,  Louisiana;  and  his  paw,  and  his  paw 
before  him,  had  a  plantation  there  since  the 
time  of  Adam,  but  he  lost  it  and  six  hun 
dred  niggers  during  the  Wah!  We  were 
pooh  as  pohverty  —  paw  and  maw  and  we 
four  girls  —  and  no  more  idea  of  work  than 


26  JIMMY'S   BIG   BROTHER 

a  baby.  But  I  had  an  education  at  the 
convent  at  New  Orleans,  and  could  play, 
and  speak  French,  and  I  got  a  place  as 
school-teacher  here;  I  reckon  the  first 
Southern  woman  that  has  taught  school  in 
the  No'th !  Ricketts,  who  used  to  be  our 
steward  at  Bayou  Sara,  told  me  about  the 
pickaninnies,  and  how  helpless  they  were, 
with  only  a  brother  who  occasionally  sent 
them  money  from  California.  I  suppose 
I  cottoned  to  the  pooh  little  things  at  first 
because  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  alone 
amongst  strangers,  Mr.  Lasham;  I  used  to 
teach  them  at  odd  times,  and  look  after 
them,  and  go  with  them  to  the  train  to  look 
for  you.  Perhaps  Ricketts  made  me  think 
you  didn't  care  for  them;  perhaps  I  was 
wrong  in  thinking  it  was  true,  from  the 
way  you  met  Jimmy  just  now.  But  I  've 
spoken  my  mind  —  and  you  know  why." 
She  ceased  and  walked  to  the  window. 

Falloner  rose.  The  storm  that  had  swept 
through  him  was  over.  The  quick  determi 
nation,  resolute  purpose,  and  infinite  pa 
tience  which  had  made  him  what  he  was 
were  all  there,  and  with  it  a  conscientious 
ness  which  his  selfish  independence  had 
hitherto  kept  dormant.  He  accepted  the 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  27 

situation,  not  passively  —  it  was  not  in  his 
nature  —  but  threw  himself  into  it  with  all 
his  energy. 

"You  were  quite  right,"  he  said,  halting 
a  moment  beside  her;  "I  don't  blame  you, 
and  let  me  hope  that  later  you  may  think 
me  less  to  blame  than  you  do  now.  Now, 
what's  to  be  done?  Clearly,  I've  first  to 
make  it  right  with  Tommy  —  I  mean  Jimmy 
—  and  then  we  must  make  a  straight  dash 
over  to  the  girl!  Whoop!"  Before  she 
could  understand  from  his  face  the  strange 
change  in  his  voice,  he  had  dashed  out  of 
the  room.  In  a  moment  he  reappeared  with 
the  boy  struggling  in  his  arms.  "Think  of 
the  little  scamp  not  knowing  his  own  bro 
ther!  "  he  laughed,  giving  the  boy  a  really 
affectionate,  if  slightly  exaggerated  hug, 
"and  expecting  me  to  open  my  arms  to  the 
first  little  boy  who  jumps  into  them!  I  've 
a  great  mind  not  to  give  him  the  present  I 
fetched  all  the  way  from  California.  Wait 
a  moment."  He  dashed  into  the  bedroom, 
opened  his  valise  —  where  he  providentially 
remembered  he  had  kept,  with  a  miner's 
superstition,  the  first  little  nugget  of  gold 
he  had  ever  found  —  seized  the  tiny  bit  of 
quartz  of  gold,  and  dashed  out  again  to  dis 
play  it  before  Jimmy's  eager  eyes. 


28  JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER 

If  the  heartiness,  sympathy,  and  charm 
ing  kindness  of  the  man's  whole  manner 
and  face  convinced,  even  while  it  slightly 
startled,  the  young  girl,  it  was  still  more 
effective  with  the  boy.  Children  are  quick 
to  detect  the  false  ring  of  affected  emotion, 
and  Bob's  was  so  genuine  —  whatever  its 
cause  —  that  it  might  have  easily  passed 
for  a  fraternal  expression  with  harder  crit 
ics.  The  child  trustfully  nestled  against 
him  and  would  have  grasped  the  gold,  but 
the  young  man  whisked  it  into  his  pocket. 
"Not  until  we  've  shown  it  to  our  little  sis 
ter  —  where  we  're  going  now !  I'm  off  to 
order  a  sleigh."  He  dashed  out  again  to 
the  office  as  if  he  found  some  relief  in  ac 
tion,  or,  as  it  seemed  to  Miss  Boutelle,  to 
avoid  embarrassing  conversation.  When 
he  came  back  again  he  was  carrying  an  im 
mense  bearskin  from  his  luggage.  He  cast 
a  critical  look  at  the  girl's  unseasonable 
attire." 

"  I  shall  wrap  you  and  Jimmy  in  this  — 
you  know  it 's  snowing  frightfully." 

Miss  Boutelle  flushed  a  little.  "I'm 
warm  enough  when  walking,"  she  said 
coldly.  Bob  glanced  at  her  smart  little 
French  shoes,  and  thought  otherwise.  He 


FROM   CALIFORNIA  29 

said  nothing,  but  hastily  bundled  his  two 
guests  downstairs  and  into  the  street.  The 
whirlwind  dance  of  the  snow  made  the  sleigh 
an  indistinct  bulk  in  the  glittering  dark 
ness,  and  as  the  young  girl  for  an  instant 
stood  dazedly  still,  Bob  incontinently  lifted 
her  from  her  feet,  deposited  her  in  the  vehi 
cle,  dropped  Jimmy  in  her  lap,  and  wrapped 
them  both  tightly  in  the  bearskin.  Her 
weight,  which  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
child's,  struck  him  in  that  moment  as  being 
tantalizingly  incongruous  to  the  matronly 
severity  of  her  manner  and  its  strange  effect 
upon  him.  He  then  jumped  in  himself, 
taking  the  direction  from  his  companion, 
and  drove  off  through  the  storm. 

The  wind  and  darkness  were  not  favor 
able  to  conversation,  and  only  once  did  he 
break  the  silence.  "Is  there  any  one  who 
would  be  likely  to  remember  —  me  —  where 
we  are  going?"  he  asked,  in  a  lull  of  the 
storm. 

Miss  Boutelle  uncovered  enough  of  her 
face  to  glance  at  him  curiously.  "  Hardly ! 
You  know  the  children  came  here  from  the 
No'th  after  your  mother's  death,  while  you 
were  in  California." 

"Of   course,"    returned   Bob   hurriedly; 


30  JIMMTS  BIG  BROTHER 

"I  was  only  thinking  —  you  know  that 
some  of  my  old  friends  might  have  called," 
and  then  collapsed  into  silence. 

After  a  pause  a  voice  came  icily,  although 
under  the  furs:  "Perhaps  you'd  prefer 
that  your  arrival  be  kept  secret  from  the 
public?  But  they  seem  to  have  already 
recognized  you  at  the  hotel  from  your  in 
quiry  about  Kicketts,  and  the  photograph 
Jimmy  had  already  shown  them  two  weeks 
ago."  Bob  remembered  the  clerk's  famil 
iar  manner  and  the  omission  to  ask  him  to 
register.  "But  it  need  go  no  further,  if 
you  like,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  return 
of  her  previous  scorn. 

"I've  no  reason  for  keeping  it  secret," 
said  Bob  stoutly. 

No  other  words  were  exchanged  until  the 
sleigh  drew  up  before  a  plain  wooden  house 
in  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  Bob  could  see 
at  a  glance  that  it  represented  the  income 
of  some  careful  artisan  or  small  shopkeeper, 
and  that  it  promised  little  for  an  invalid's 
luxurious  comfort.  They  were  ushered  into 
a  chilly  sitting-room,  and  Miss  Boutelle  ran 
upstairs  with  Jimmy  to  prepare  the  invalid 
for  Bob's  appearance.  He  noticed  that  a 
word  dropped  by  the  woman  who  opened 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  31 

the  door  made  the  young  girl's  face  grave 
again,  and  paled  the  color  that  the  storm 
had  buffeted  to  her  cheek.  He  noticed  also 
that  these  plain  surroundings  seemed  only 
to  enhance  her  own  superiority,  and  that 
the  woman  treated  her  with  a  deference  in 
odd  contrast  to  the  ill-concealed  disfavor 
with  which  she  regarded  him.  Strangely 
enough,  this  latter  fact  was  a  relief  to  his 
conscience.  It  would  have  been  terrible  to 
have  received  their  kindness  under  false 
pretenses;  to  take  their  just  blame  of  the 
man  he  personated  seemed  to  mitigate  the 
deceit. 

The  young  girl  rejoined  him  presently 
with  troubled  eyes.  Cissy  was  worse,  and 
only  intermittently  conscious,  but  had  asked 
to  see  him.  It  was  a  short  flight  of  stairs 
to  the  bedroom,  but  before  he  reached  it 
Bob's  heart  beat  faster  than  it  had  in  any 
mountain  climb.  In  one  corner  of  the 
plainly  furnished  room  stood  a  small  truckle 
bed,  and  in  it  lay  the  invalid.  It  needed 
but  a  single  glance  at  her  flushed  face  in 
its  aureole  of  yellow  hair  to  recognize  the 
likeness  to  Jimmy,  although,  added  to  that 
strange  refinement  produced  by  suffering, 
there  was  a  spiritual  exaltation  in  the  child's 


32  JIM MTS   BIG   BROTHER 

look  —  possibly  from  delirium  —  that  awed 
and  frightened  him;  an  awful  feeling  that 
he  could  not  lie  to  this  hopeless  creature 
took  possession  of  him,  and  his  step  fal 
tered.  But  she  lifted  her  small  arms  pa 
thetically  towards  him  as  if  she  divined  his 
trouble,  and  he  sank  on  his  knees  beside 
her.  With  a  tiny  finger  curled  around  his 
long  mustache,  she  lay  there  silent.  Her 
face  was  full  of  trustfulness,  happiness,  and 
consciousness  —  but  she  spoke  no  word. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Falloner,  slightly 
lifting  his  head  without  disturbing  that 
faintly  clasping  finger,  beckoned  Miss  Bou- 
telle  to  his  side.  "Can  you  drive?"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes." 

"Take  my  sleigh  and  get  the  best  doctor 
in  town  to  come  here  at  once.  Bring  him 
with  you  if  you  can;  if  he  can't  come  at 
once,  drive  home  yourself.  I  will  stay 
here." 

"But"  — hesitated  Miss  Boutelle. 

"I  will  stay  here,"  he  repeated. 

The  door  closed  on  the  young  girl,  and 
Falloner,  still  bending  over  the  child,  pre 
sently  heard  the  sleigh-bells  pass  away  in 
the  storm.  He  still  sat  with  his  bent  head. 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  33 

held  by  the  tiny  clasp  of  those  thin  fingers. 
But  the  child's  eyes  were  fixed  so  intently 
upon  him  that  Mrs.  Kicketts  leaned  over 
the  strangely-assorted  pair  and  said  — 

"It 's  your  brother  Dick,  dearie.  Don't 
you  know  him  ?  " 

The  child's  lips  moved  faintly.  "Dick  's 
dead,"  she  whispered. 

"She's  wandering,"  said  Mrs.  Kicketts. 
"Speak  to  her."  But  Bob,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  child's,  lifted  a  protesting  hand. 
The  little  sufferer's  lips  moved  again.  "It 
is  n't  Dick  —  it 's  the  angel  God  sent  to  tell 
me." 

She  spoke  no  more.  And  when  Miss 
Boutelle  returned  with  the  doctor  she  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  finite  voices.  Falloner 
would  have  remained  all  night  with  them, 
but  he  could  see  that  his  presence  in  the 
contracted  household  was  not  desired.  Even 
his  offer  to  take  Jimmy  with  him  to  the 
hotel  was  declined,  and  at  midnight  he  re 
turned  alone. 

What  his  thoughts  were  that  night  may 
be  easily  imagined.  Cissy's  death  had  re 
moved  the  only  cause  he  had  for  concealing 
his  real  identity.  There  was  nothing  more 
to  prevent  his  revealing  all  to  Miss  Boutelle 


34  JIMMY'S   BIG   BROTHER 

and  to  offer  to  adopt  the  boy.  But  he  re 
flected  this  could  not  be  done  until  after  the 
funeral,  for  it  was  only  due  to  Cissy's  mem 
ory  that  he  should  still  keep  up  the  role  of 
Dick  Lasham  as  chief  mourner.  If  it  seems 
strange  that  Bob  did  not  at  this  crucial  mo 
ment  take  Miss  Boutelle  into  his  confidence, 
I  fear  it  was  because  he  dreaded  the  per 
sonal  effect  of  the  deceit  he  had  practiced 
upon  her  more  than  any  ethical  considera 
tion;  she  had  softened  considerably  in  her 
attitude  towards  him  that  night;  he  was 
human,  after  all,  and  while  he  felt  his  con 
duct  had  been  unselfish  in  the  main,  he 
dared  not  confess  to  himself  how  much  her 
opinion  had  influenced  him.  He  resolved 
that  after  the  funeral  he  would  continue  his 
journey,  and  write  to  her,  en  route,  a  full 
explanation  of  his  conduct,  inclosing  Dad 
dy's  letter  as  corroborative  evidence.  But 
on  searching  his  letter-case  he  found  that 
he  had  lost  even  that  evidence,  and  he  must 
trust  solely  at  present  to  her  faith  in  his 
improbable  story. 

It  seemed  as  if  his  greatest  sacrifice  was 
demanded  at  the  funeral!  For  it  could 
not  be  disguised  that  the  neighbors  were 
strongly  prejudiced  against  him.  Even  the 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  35 

preacher  improved  the  occasion  to  warn  the 
congregation  against  the  dangers  of  putting 
off  duty  until  too  late.  And  when  Robert 
Falloner,  pale,  but  self-restrained,  left  the 
church  with  Miss  Boutelle,  equally  pale  and 
reserved,  on  his  arm,  he  could  with  diffi 
culty  restrain  his  fury  at  the  passing  of  a 
significant  smile  across  the  faces  of  a  few 
curious  bystanders.  "It  was  Amy  Bou 
telle,  that  was  the  '  penitence  '  that  fetched 
him,  you  bet! "  he  overheard,  a  barely  con 
cealed  whisper;  and  the  reply,  "And  it's 
a  good  thing  she  's  made  out  of  it  too,  for 
he  's  mighty  rich!  " 

At  the  church  door  he  took  her  cold  hand 
into  his.  "I  am  leaving  to-morrow  morn 
ing  with  Jimmy,"  he  said,  with  a  white 
face.  "Good-by." 

"You  are  quite  right;  good-by,"  she  re 
plied  as  briefly,  but  with  the  faintest  color. 
He  wondered  if  she  had  heard  it  too. 

"Whether  she  had  heard  it  or  not,  she 
went  home  with  Mrs.  Ricketts  in  some 
righteous  indignation,  which  found  —  after 
the  young  lady's  habit  —  free  expression. 
Whatever  were  Mr.  Lasham's  faults  of 
omission  it  was  most  un-Christian  to  allude 
to  them  there,  and  an  insult  to  the  poor 


36  JIMMY'S  BIG  BROTHER 

little  dear's  memory  who  had  forgiven  them. 
Were  she  in  his  shoes  she  would  shake  the 
dust  of  the  town  off  her  feet ;  and  she  hoped 
he  would.  She  was  a  little  softened  on  ar 
riving  to  find  Jimmy  in  tears.  He  had  lost 
Dick's  photograph  —  or  Dick  had  forgotten 
to  give  it  back  at  the  hotel,  for  this  was  all 
he  had  in  his  pocket.  And  he  produced  a 
letter  —  the  missing  letter  of  Daddy,  which 
by  mistake  Falloner  had  handed  back  in 
stead  of  the  photograph.  Miss  Boutelle 
saw  the  superscription  and  Californian  post 
mark  with  a  vague  curiosity. 

"Did  you  look  inside,  dear?  Perhaps  it 
slipped  in." 

Jimmy  had  not.  Miss  Boutelle  did  — 
and  I  grieve  to  say,  ended  by  reading  the 
whole  letter. 

Bob  Falloner  had  finished  packing  his 
things  the  next  morning,  and  was  waiting 
for  Mr.  Eicketts  and  Jimmy.  But  when  a 
tap  came  at  the  door,  he  opened  it  to  find 
Miss  Boutelle  standing  there.  "I  have  sent 
Jimmy  into  the  bedroom,"  she  said  with  a 
faint  smile,  "to  look  for  the  photograph 
which  you  gave  him  in  mistake  for  this.  I 
think  for  the  present  he  prefers  his  brother's 
picture  to  this  letter,  which  I  have  not  ex- 


FROM  CALIFORNIA  37 

plained  to  him  or  any  one."  She  stopped, 
and  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  said  gently:  "I 
think  it  would  have  only  been  a  part  of  your 
goodness  to  have  trusted  me,  Mr.  Falloner." 

"Then  you  will  forgive  me?"  he  said 
eagerly. 

She  looked  at  him  frankly,  yet  with  a 
faint  trace  of  coquetry  that  the  angels  might 
have  pardoned.  "Do  you  want  me  to  say 
to  you  what  Mrs.  Eicketts  says  were  the 
last  words  of  poor  Cissy? " 

A  year  later,  when  the  darkness  and  rain 
were  creeping  up  Sawyer's  Ledge,  and 
Houston  and  Daddy  Folsom  were  sitting 
before  their  brushwood  fire  in  the  old 
Lasham  cabin,  the  latter  delivered  himself 
oracularly. 

"It's  a  mighty  queer  thing,  that  news 
about  Bob!  It's  not  that  he's  married, 
for  that  might  happen  to  any  one;  but  this 
yer  account  in  the  paper  of  his  wedding 
being  attended  by  his  '  little  brother. '  That 
gets  me!  To  think  all  the  while  he  was 
here  he  was  lettin'  on  to  us  that  he  hadn't 
kith  or  kin!  Well,  sir,  that  accounts  to 
me  for  one  thing,  —  the  sing'ler  way  he  tum 
bled  to  that  letter  of  poor  Dick  Lasham 's 
little  brother  and  sent  him  that  draft! 


38  JIMMTS  BIG  BROTHER 

Don't  ye  see?  It  was  a  feller  feelin' ! 
Knew  how  it  was  himself !  I  reckon  ye 
all  thought  I  was  kinder  soft  reading  that 
letter  o'  Dick  Lasham's  little  brother  to 
him,  but  ye  see  what  it  did." 


THE  YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

I  DO  not  think  that  any  of  us  who  en 
joyed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Piper  girls  or 
the  hospitality  of  Judge  Piper,  their  father, 
ever  cared  for  the  youngest  sister.  Not  on 
account  of  her  extreme  youth,  for  the  eldest 
Miss  Piper  confessed  to  twenty-six  —  and 
the  youth  of  the  youngest  sister  was  estab 
lished  solely,  I  think,  by  one  big  braid 
down  her  back.  Neither  was  it  because 
she  was  the  plainest,  for  the  beauty  of  the 
Piper  girls  was  a  recognized  general  distinc 
tion,  and  the  youngest  Miss  Piper  was  not 
entirely  devoid  of  the  family  charms.  Nor 
was  it  from  any  lack  of  intelligence,  nor 
from  any  defective  social  quality;  for  her 
precocity  was  astounding,  and  her  good- 
humored  frankness  alarming.  Neither  do  I 
think  it  could  be  said  that  a  slight  deafness, 
which  might  impart  an  embarrassing  pub 
licity  to  any  statement  —  the  reverse  of  our 
general  feeling  —  that  might  be  confided  by 
any  one  to  her  private  ear,  was  a  sufficient 


40  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

reason;  for  it  was  pointed  out  that  she  al 
ways  understood  everything  that  Tom  Spar- 
rell  told  her  in  his  ordinary  tone  of  voice. 
Briefly,  it  was  very  possible  that  Delaware 
—  the  youngest  Miss  Piper  —  did  not  like  us. 

Yet  it  was  fondly  believed  by  us  that  the 
other  sisters  failed  to  show  that  indifference 
to  our  existence  shown  by  Miss  Delaware, 
although  the  heartburnings,  misunderstand 
ings,  jealousies,  hopes  and  fears,  and  finally 
the  chivalrous  resignation  with  which  we  at 
last  accepted  the  long  foregone  conclusion 
that  they  were  not  for  us,  and  far  beyond 
our  reach,  is  not  a  part  of  this  veracious 
chronicle.  Enough  that  none  of  the  flirta 
tions  of  her  elder  sisters  affected  or  were 
shared  by  the  youngest  Miss  Piper.  She 
moved  in  this  heart-breaking  atmosphere 
with  sublime  indifference,  treating  her  sis 
ters'  affairs  with  what  we  considered  rank 
simplicity  or  appalling  frankness.  Their 
few  admirers  who  were  weak  enough  to  at 
tempt  to  gain  her  mediation  or  confidence 
had  reason  to  regret  it. 

"It 's  no  kind  o'  use  givin'  me  goodies," 
she  said  to  a  helpless  suitor  of  Louisiana 
Piper's  who  had  offered  to  bring  her  some 
sweets,  "for  I  ain't  got  no  influence  with 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  41 

Lu,  and  if  I  don't  give  'em  up  to  her  when 
she  hears  of  it,  she  '11  nag  me  and  hate  you 
like  pizen.  Unless,"  she  added  thought 
fully,  "it  was  wintergreen  lozenges;  Lu 
can't  stand  them,  or  anybody  who  eats  them 
within  a  mile."  It  is  needless  to  add  that 
the  miserable  man,  thus  put  upon  his  gal 
lantry,  was  obliged  in  honor  to  provide  Del 
with  the  wintergreen  lozenges  that  kept  him 
in  disfavor  and  at  a  distance.  Unfortu 
nately,  too,  any  predilection  or  pity  for  any 
particular  suitor  of  her  sister's  was  attended 
by  even  more  disastrous  consequences.  It 
was  reported  that  while  acting  as  "goose 
berry" —  a  role  usually  assigned  to  her  — 
between  Virginia  Piper  and  an  exception 
ally  timid  young  surveyor,  during  a  ramble 
she  conceived  a  rare  sentiment  of  humanity 
towards  the  unhappy  man.  After  once  or 
twice  lingering  behind  in  the  ostentatious 
picking  of  a  wayside  flower,  or  "running 
on  ahead "  to  look  at  a  mountain  view, 
without  any  apparent  effect  on  the  shy  and 
speechless  youth,  she  decoyed  him  aside 
while  her  elder  sister  rambled  indifferently 
and  somewhat  scornfully  on.  The  young 
est  Miss  Piper  leaped  upon  the  rail  of  a 
fence,  and  with  the  stalk  of  a  thimbleberry 


42  TEE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

in  her  mouth  swung  her  small  feet  to  and 
fro  and  surveyed  him  dispassionately. 

"Ye  don't  seem  to  be  ketchin'  on?"  she 
said  tentatively. 

The  young  man  smiled  feebly  and  inter 
rogatively. 

"Don't  seem  to  be  either  follering  suit 
nor  trumpin',"  continued  Del  bluntly. 

"I  suppose  so  —  that  is,  I  fear  that  Miss 
Virginia  "  —  he  stammered. 

"Speak  up!  I 'm  a  little  deaf.  Say  it 
again !  "  said  Del,  screwing  up  her  eyes  and 
eyebrows. 

The  young  man  was  obliged  to  admit  in 
stentorian  tones  that  his  progress  had  been 
scarcely  satisfactory. 

"You  're  goin'  on  too  slow  —  that 's  it," 
said  Del  critically.  "Why,  when  Captain 
Savage  meandered  along  here  with  Jinny  " 
(Virginia;  "last  week,  afore  we  got  as  far 
as  this  he  'd  reeled  off  a  heap  of  Byron  and 
Jamieson"  (Tennyson),  "and  sich;  and 
only  yesterday  Jinny  and  Doctor  Beveridge 
was  blowin'  thistletops  to  know  which  was 
a  flirt  all  along  the  trail  past  the  cross 
roads.  Why,  ye  ain't  picked  ez  much  as 
a  single  berry  for  Jinny,  let  alone  Lad's 
Love  or  Johnny  Jumpups  and  Kissme's, 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  43 

and  ye  keep  talkin'  across  me,  you  two,  till 
I'm  tired.  Now  look  here,"  she  burst  out 
with  sudden  decision,  "Jinny  's  gone  on 
ahead  in  a  kind  o'  huff;  but  I  reckon  she  's 
done  that  afore  too,  and  you  '11  find  her, 
jest  as  Spinner  did,  on  the  rise  of  the  hill, 
sittin'  on  a  pine  stump  and  lookin'  like 
this."  (Here  the  youngest  Miss  Piper 
locked  her  fingers  over  her  left  knee,  and 
drew  it  slightly  up,  —  with  a  sublime  in 
difference  to  the  exposure  of  considerable 
small-ankled  red  stocking,  —  and  with  a 
far-off,  plaintive  stare,  achieved  a  colorable 
imitation  of  her  elder  sister's  probable  atti 
tude.)  "Then  you  jest  go  up  softly,  like 
as  you  was  a  bear,  and  clap  your  hands  on 
her  eyes,  and  say  in  a  disguised  voice  like 
this"  (here  Del  turned  on  a  high  falsetto 
beyond  any  masculine  compass),  "'  Who  's 
who?  '  jest  like  in  forfeits." 

"But  she'll  be  sure  to  know  me,"  said 
the  surveyor  timidly. 

"She  won't,"  said  Del  in  scornful  skepti 
cism. 

"  I  hardly  think  "  —  stammered  the  young 
man,  with  an  awkward  smile,  "that  I  —  in 
fact  —  she  '11  discover  me  —  before  I  can 
get  beside  her." 


44  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

"Not  if  you  go  softly,  for  she  '11  be  sittin' 
back  to  the  road,  so  —  gazing  away,  so  "  — 
the  youngest  Miss  Piper  again  stared  dream 
ily  in  the  distance,  "and  you'll  creep  up 
just  behind,  like  this." 

"But  won't  she  be  angry?  I  haven't 
known  her  long  —  that  is  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 
He  stopped  embarrassedly. 

"Can't  hear  a  word  you  say,"  said  Del, 
shaking  her  head  decisively.  "You  've  got 
my  deaf  ear.  Speak  louder,  or  come 
closer." 

But  here  the  instruction  suddenly  ended, 
once  and  for  all  time!  For  whether  the 
young  man  was  seriously  anxious  to  perfect 
himself;  whether  he  was  truly  grateful  to 
the  young  girl  and  tried  to  show  it ;  whether 
he  was  emboldened  by  the  childish  appeal 
of  the  long  brown  distinguishing  braid 
down  her  back,  or  whether  he  suddenly 
found  something  peculiarly  provocative  in 
the  reddish  brown  eyes  between  their  thick 
set  hedge  of  lashes,  and  with  the  trim  figure 
and  piquant  pose,  and  was  seized  with  that 
hysteric  desperation  which  sometimes  at 
tacks  timidity  itself,  I  cannot  say !  Enough 
that  he  suddenly  put  his  arm  around  her 
waist  and  his  lips  to  her  soft  satin  cheek, 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  45 

peppered  and  salted  as  it  was  by  sun -freckles 
and  mountain  air,  and  received  a  sound  box 
on  the  ear  for  his  pains.  The  incident  was 
closed.  He  did  not  repeat  the  experiment 
on  either  sister.  The  disclosure  of  his  re 
buff  seemed,  however,  to  give  a  singular 
satisfaction  to  Red  Gulch. 

While  it  may  be  gathered  from  this  that 
the  youngest  Miss  Piper  was  impervious  to 
general  masculine  advances,  it  was  not  until 
later  that  Red  Gulch  was  thrown  into  skep 
tical  astonishment  by  the  rumors  that  all 
this  time  she  really  had  a  lover !  Allusion 
has  been  made  to  the  charge  that  her  deaf 
ness  did  not  prevent  her  from  perfectly  un 
derstanding  the  ordinary  tone  of  voice  of  a 
certain  Mr.  Thomas  Sparrell. 

No  undue  significance  was  attached  to 
this  fact  through  the  very  insignificance  and 
"impossibility"  of  that  individual;  —  a 
lanky,  red-haired  youth,  incapacitated  for 
manual  labor  through  lameness,  —  a  clerk 
in  a  general  store  at  the  Cross  Roads !  He 
had  never  been  the  recipient  of  Judge 
Piper's  hospitality;  he  had  never  visited 
the  house  even  with  parcels;  apparently  his 
only  interviews  with  her  or  any  of  the  family 
had  been  over  the  counter.  To  do  him  jus- 


46  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

tice  he  certainly  had  never  seemed  to  seek 
any  nearer  acquaintance ;  he  was  not  at  the 
church  door  when  her  sisters,  beautiful  in 
their  Sunday  gowns,  filed  into  the  aisle, 
with  little  Delaware  bringing  up  the  rear; 
he  was  not  at  the  Democratic  barbecue,  that 
we  attended  without  reference  to  our  per 
sonal  politics,  and  solely  for  the  sake  of 
Judge  Piper  and  the  girls;  nor  did  he  go 
to  the  Agricultural  Fair  Ball  —  open  to  all. 
His  abstention  we  believed  to  be  owing  to 
his  lameness;  to  a  wholesome  consciousness 
of  his  own  social  defects ;  or  an  inordinate 
passion  for  reading  cheap  scientific  text 
books,  which  did  not,  however,  add  fluency 
nor  conviction  to  his  speech.  Neither  had 
he  the  abstraction  of  a  student,  for  his  ac 
counts  were  kept  with  an  accuracy  which 
struck  us,  who  dealt  at  the  store,  as  ignobly 
practical,  and  even  malignant.  Possibly 
we  might  have  expressed  this  opinion  more 
strongly  but  for  a  certain  rude  vigor  of 
repartee  which  he  possessed,  and  a  sugges 
tion  that  he  might  have  a  temper  on  occa 
sion.  "Them  red-haired  chaps  is  like  to 
be  tetchy  and  to  kinder  see  blood  through 
their  eyelashes,"  had  been  suggested  by  an 
observing  customer. 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  47 

In  short,  little  as  we  knew  of  the  young 
est  Miss  Piper,  he  was  the  last  man  we 
should  have  suspected  her  to  select  as  an 
admirer.  What  we  did  know  of  their 
public  relations,  purely  commercial  ones, 
implied  the  reverse  of  any  cordial  under 
standing.  The  provisioning  of  the  Piper 
household  was  entrusted  to  Del,  with  other 
practical  odds  and  ends  of  housekeeping, 
not  ornamental,  and  the  following  is  said 
to  be  a  truthful  record  of  one  of  their  over 
heard  interviews  at  the  store :  — 

The  youngest  Miss  Piper,  entering,  dis 
placing  a  quantity  of  goods  in  the  centre  to 
make  a  sideways  seat  for  herself,  and  look 
ing  around  loftily  as  she  took  a  memoran 
dum-book  and  pencil  from  her  pocket. 

"Ahem!  If  I  ain't  taking  you  away 
from  your  studies,  Mr.  Sparrell,  maybe 
you  '11  be  good  enough  to  look  here  a  minit; 
—  but"  (in  affected  politeness)  "if  I  'm  dis 
turbing  you  I  can  come  another  time." 

Sparrell,  placing  the  book  he  had  been 
reading  carefully  under  the  counter,  and 
advancing  to  Miss  Delaware  with  a  com 
plete  ignoring  of  her  irony :  "  What  can  we 
do  for  you  to-day,  Miss  Piper?  " 

Miss   Delaware,    with    great   suavity   of 


48  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

manner,  examining  her  memorandum-book : 
"I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  shocking  your 
delicate  feelings  too  much  to  inform  you 
that  the  canned  lobster  and  oysters  you  sent 
us  yesterday  wasn't  fit  for  hogs?" 

Sparrell  (blandly):  "They  weren't  in 
tended  for  them,  Miss  Piper.  If  we  had 
known  you  were  having  company  over  from 
Ked  Gulch  to  dinner,  we  might  have  pro 
vided  something  more  suitable  for  them. 
We  have  a  fair  quality  of  oil-cake  and  corn 
cobs  in  stock,  at  reduced  figures.  But  the 
canned  provisions  were  for  your  own  fam- 

ily." 

Miss  Delaware  (secretly  pleased  at  this 
sarcastic  allusion  to  her  sister's  friends, 
but  concealing  her  delight):  "I  admire  to 
hear  you  talk  that  way,  Mr.  Sparrell;  it's 
better  than  minstrels  or  a  circus.  I  sup 
pose  you  get  it  outer  that  book,"  indicat 
ing  the  concealed  volume.  "What  do  you 
call  it?  " 

Sparrell  (politely):  "The  First  Princi 
ples  of  Geology." 

Miss  Delaware,  leaning  sideways  and 
curling  her  little  fingers  around  her  pink 
ear:  "Did  you  say  the  first  principles  of 
'  geology  '  or  '  politeness  '  ?  You  know  I 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  49 

am  so  deaf;  but,  of  course,  it  couldn't  be 
that." 

Sparrell  (easily):  "Oh  no,  you  seem  to 
have  that  in  your  hand  "  —  pointing  to  Miss 
Delaware's  memorandum -book  —  "you  were 
quoting  from  it  when  you  came  in." 

Miss  Delaware,  after  an  affected  silence 
of  deep  resignation:  "Well!  it's  too  bad 
folks  can't  just  spend  their  lives  listenin'  to 
such  elegant  talk ;  I  'd  admire  to  do  nothing 
else!  But  there  's  my  family  up  at  Cotton- 
wood —  and  they  must  eat.  They  're  that 
low  that  they  expect  me  to  waste  my  time 
getting  food  for  'em  here,  instead  of  drink 
ing  in  the  First  Principles  of  the  Grocery." 

"Geology,"  suggested  Sparrell  blandly. 
"The  history  of  rock  formation." 

"Geology,"  accepted  Miss  Delaware 
apologetically,  "the  history  of  rocks,  which 
is  so  necessary  for  knowing  just  how  much 
sand  you  can  put  in  the  sugar.  So  I  reckon 
I  '11  leave  my  list  here,  and  you  can  have 
the  things  toted  to  Cottonwood  when  you  've 
got  through  with  your  First  Principles." 

She  tore  out  a  list  of  her  commissions 
from  a  page  of  her  memorandum -book, 
leaped  lightly  from  the  counter,  threw  her 
brown  braid  from  her  left  shoulder  to  its 


50  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

proper  place  down  her  back,  shook  out  her 
skirts  deliberately,  and  saying,  "  Thank  you 
for  a  most  improvin'  afternoon,  Mr.  Spar- 
rell,"  sailed  demurely  out  of  the  store. 

A  few  auditors  of  this  narrative  thought 
it  inconsistent  that  a  daughter  of  Judge 
Piper  and  a  sister  of  the  angelic  host  should 
put  up  with  a  mere  clerk's  familiarity,  but 
it  was  pointed  out  that  "she  gave  him  as 
good  as  he  sent,"  and  the  story  was  gen 
erally  credited.  But  certainly  no  one  ever 
dreamed  that  it  pointed  to  any  more  pre 
cious  confidences  between  them. 

I  think  the  secret  burst  upon  the  family, 
with  other  things,  at  the  big  picnic  at 
Reservoir  Canon.  This  festivity  had  been 
arranged  for  weeks  previously,  and  was  un 
dertaken  chiefly  by  the  "Red  Gulch  Con 
tingent,"  as  we  were  called,  as  a  slight  re 
turn  to  the  Piper  family  for  their  frequent 
hospitality.  The  Piper  sisters  were  ex 
pected  to  bring  nothing  but  their  own  per 
sonal  graces  and  attend  to  the  ministration 
of  such  viands  and  delicacies  as  the  boys 
had  profusely  supplied. 

The  site  selected  was  Reservoir  Canon,  a 
beautiful,  triangular  valley  with  very  steep 
sides,  one  of  which  was  crowned  by  the 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  51 

immense  reservoir  of  the  Pioneer  Ditch 
Company.  The  sheer  flanks  of  the  canon 
descended  in  furrowed  lines  of  vines  and 
clinging  bushes,  like  folds  of  falling  skirts, 
until  they  broke  again  into  flounces  of 
spangled  shrubbery  over  a  broad  level  car 
pet  of  monkshood,  mariposas,  lupines,  pop 
pies,  and  daisies.  Tempered  and  secluded 
from  the  sun's  rays  by  its  lofty  shadows, 
the  delicious  obscurity  of  the  canon  was  in 
sharp  contrast  to  the  fiery  mountain  trail 
that  in  the  full  glare  of  the  noonday  sky 
made  its  tortuous  way  down  the  hillside, 
like  a  stream  of  lava,  to  plunge  suddenly  into 
the  valley  and  extinguish  itself  in  its  cool 
ness  as  in  a  lake.  The  heavy  odors  of  wild 
honeysuckle,  syringa,  and  ceanothus  that 
hung  over  it  were  lightened  and  freshened 
by  the  sharp  spicing  of  pine  and  bay.  The 
mountain  breeze  which  sometimes  shook  the 
serrated  tops  of  the  large  redwoods  above 
with  a  chill  from  the  remote  snow  peaks 
even  in  the  heart  of  summer,  never  reached 
the  little  valley. 

It  seemed  an  ideal  place  for  a  picnic. 
Everybody  was  therefore  astonished  to  hear 
that  an  objection  was  suddenly  raised  to 
this  perfect  site.  They  were  still  more  as- 


52  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

tonished  to  know  that  the  objector  was  the 
youngest  Miss  Piper !  Pressed  to  give  her 
reasons,  she  had  replied  that  the  locality 
was  dangerous;  that  the  reservoir  placed 
upon  the  mountain,  notoriously  old  and 
worn  out,  had  been  rendered  more  unsafe 
by  false  economy  in  unskillful  and  hasty 
repairs  to  satisfy  speculating  stockbrokers, 
and  that  it  had  lately  shown  signs  of  leak 
age  and  sapping  of  its  outer  walls ;  that,  in 
the  event  of  an  outbreak,  the  little  triangu 
lar  valley,  from  which  there  was  no  outlet, 
would  be  instantly  flooded.  Asked  still 
more  pressingly  to  give  her  authority  for 
these  details,  she  at  first  hesitated,  and  then 
gave  the  name  of  Tom  Sparrell. 

The  derision  with  which  this  statement 
was  received  by  us  all,  as  the  opinion  of 
a  sedentary  clerk,  was  quite  natural  and 
obvious,  but  not  the  anger  which  it  excited 
in  the  breast  of  Judge  Piper;  for  it  was 
not  generally  known  that  the  judge  was  the 
holder  of  a  considerable  number  of  shares 
in  the  Pioneer  Ditch  Company,  and  that 
large  dividends  had  been  lately  kept  up  by 
a  false  economy  of  expenditure,  to  expedite 
a  "sharp  deal*'  in  the  stock,  by  which  the 
judge  and  others  could  sell  out  of  a  failing 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  53 

company.  Kather,  it  was  believed,  that 
the  judge's  anger  was  due  only  to  the  dis 
covery  of  Sparrell's  influence  over  his  daugh 
ter  and  his  interference  with  the  social  af 
fairs  of  Cotton  wood.  It  was  said  that  there 
was  a  sharp  scene  between  the  youngest 
Miss  Piper  and  the  combined  forces  of  the 
judge  and  the  elder  sisters,  which  ended  in 
the  former's  resolute  refusal  to  attend  the 
picnic  at  all  if  that  site  was  selected. 

As  Delaware  was  known  to  be  fearless 
even  to  the  point  of  recklessness,  and  fond 
of  gayety,  her  refusal  only  intensified  the 
belief  that  she  was  merely  "stickin'  up  for 
Sparrell's  judgment"  without  any  reference 
to  her  own  personal  safety  or  that  of  her 
sisters.  The  warning  was  laughed  away; 
the  opinion  of  Sparrell  treated  with  ridicule 
as  the  dyspeptic  and  envious  expression  of 
an  impractical  man.  It  was  pointed  out  that 
the  reservoir  had  lasted  a  long  time  even  in 
its  alleged  ruinous  state;  that  only  a  mira 
cle  of  coincidence  could  make  it  break  down 
that  particular  afternoon  of  the  picnic ;  that 
even  if  it  did  happen,  there  was  no  direct 
proof  that  it  would  seriously  flood  the  val 
ley,  or  at  best  add  more  than  a  spice  of  ex 
citement  to  the  affair.  The  "Ked  Gulch 


54  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

Contingent,"  who  would  be  there,  was  quite 
as  capable  of  taking  care  of  the  ladies,  in 
case  of  any  accident,  as  any  lame  crank  who 
wouldn't,  but  could  only  croak  a  warning 
to  them  from  a  distance.  A  few  even  wished 
something  might  happen  that  they  might 
have  an  opportunity  of  showing  their  supe 
rior  devotion;  indeed,  the  prospect  of  carry 
ing  the  half -submerged  sisters,  in  a  condi 
tion  of  helpless  loveliness,  in  their  arms  to 
a  place  of  safety  was  a  fascinating  possibil 
ity.  The  warning  was  conspicuously  inef 
fective;  everybody  looked  eagerly  forward 
to  the  day  and  the  unchanged  locality;  to 
the  greatest  hopefulness  and  anticipation 
was  added  the  stirring  of  defiance,  and 
when  at  last  the  appointed  hour  had  arrived, 
the  picnic  party  passed  down  the  twisting 
mountain  trail  through  the  heat  and  glare 
in  a  fever  of  enthusiasm. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  view  this  spar 
kling  procession  —  the  girls  cool  and  radiant 
in  their  white,  blue,  and  yellow  muslins 
and  flying  ribbons,  the  "Contingent"  in  its 
cleanest  ducks,  and  blue  and  red  flannel 
shirts,  the  judge  white-waistcoated  and  pan- 
ama-hatted,  with  a  new  dignity  borrowed 
from  the  previous  circumstances,  and  three 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  55 

or  four  impressive  Chinamen  bringing  up 
the  rear  with  hampers  —  as  it  at  last  de 
bouched  into  Reservoir  Canon. 

Here  they  dispersed  themselves  over  the 
limited  area,  scarcely  half  an  acre,  with  the 
freedom  of  escaped  school  children.  They 
were  secure  in  their  woodland  privacy. 
They  were  overlooked  by  no  high  road  and 
its  passing  teams ;  they  were  safe  from  acci 
dental  intrusion  from  the  settlement;  in 
deed  they  went  so  far  as  to  effect  the  exclu- 
siveness  of  "clique."  At  first  they  amused 
themselves  by  casting  humorously  defiant 
eyes  at  the  long  low  Ditch  Reservoir,  which 
peeped  over  the  green  wall  of  the  ridge,  six 
hundred  feet  above  them;  at  times  they 
even  simulated  an  exaggerated  terror  of  it, 
and  one  recognized  humorist  declaimed  a 
grotesque  appeal  to  its  forbearance,  with 
delightful  local  allusions.  Others  pre 
tended  to  discover  near  a  woodman's  hut, 
among  the  belt  of  pines  at  the  top  of  the 
descending  trail,  the  peeping  figure  of  the 
ridiculous  and  envious  Sparrell.  But  all 
this  was  presently  forgotten  in  the  actual 
festivity.  Small  as  was  the  range  of  the 
valley,  it  still  allowed  retreats  during  the 
dances  for  waiting  couples  among  the  con- 


56  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

venient  laurel  and  manzanita  bushes  which 
flounced  the  mountain  side.  After  the 
dancing,  old-fashioned  children's  games 
were  revived  with  great  laughter  and  half 
hearted  and  coy  protests  from  the  ladies; 
notably  one  pastime  known  as  "I  'm  a-pin- 
in',"  in  which  ingenious  performance  the 
victim  was  obliged  to  stand  in  the  centre  of 
a  circle  and  publicly  "pine"  for  a  member 
of  the  opposite  sex.  Some  hilarity  was  oc 
casioned  by  the  mischievous  Miss  "Georgy  " 
Piper  declaring,  when  it  came  to  her  turn, 
that  she  was  "pinin'  "  f or  a  look  at  the  face 
of  Tom  Sparrell  just  now ! 

In  this  local  trifling  two  hours  passed, 
until  the  party  sat  down  to  the  long-looked- 
for  repast.  It  was  here  that  the  health  of 
Judge  Piper  was  neatly  proposed  by  the  edi 
tor  of  the  "Argus."  The  judge  responded 
with  great  dignity  and  some  emotion.  He 
reminded  them  that  it  had  been  his  humble 
endeavor  to  promote  harmony  —  that  har 
mony  so  characteristic  of  American  princi 
ples —  in  social  as  he  had  in  political  cir 
cles,  and  particularly  among  the  strangely 
constituted  yet  purely  American  elements 
of  frontier  life.  He  accepted  the  present 
festivity  with  its  overflowing  hospitalities, 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  57 

not  in  recognition  of  himself  —  ("yes! 
yes!")  —  nor  of  his  family  —  (enthusiastic 
protests)  —  but  of  that  American  principle ! 
If  at  one  time  it  seemed  probable  that  these 
festivities  might  be  marred  by  the  machina 
tions  of  envy  —  (groans)  —  or  that  harmony 
interrupted  by  the  importation  of  low -toned 
material  interests  —  (groans)  —  he  could  say 
that,  looking  around  him,  he  had  never  be 
fore  felt  —  er  —  that  —  Here  the  judge 
stopped  short,  reeled  slightly  forward, 
caught  at  a  camp-stool,  recovered  himself 
with  an  apologetic  smile,  and  turned  inquir 
ingly  to  his  neighbor. 

A  light  laugh  —  instantly  suppressed  — 
at  what  was  at  first  supposed  to  be  the  ef 
fect  of  the  "overflowing  hospitality"  upon 
the  speaker  himself,  went  around  the  male 
circle  until  it  suddenly  appeared  that  half 
a  dozen  others  had  started  to  their  feet  at 
the  same  time,  with  white  faces,  and  that 
one  of  the  ladies  had  screamed. 

"What  is  it?"  everybody  was  asking 
with  interrogatory  smiles. 

It  was  Judge  Piper  who  replied :  — 

"A  little  shock  of  earthquake,"  he  said 
blandly;  "a  mere  thrill!  I  think,"  he  added 
with  a  faint  smile,  "we  may  say  that  Nature 


58  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

herself  lias  applauded  our  efforts  in  good 
old  Calif ornian  fashion,  and  signified  her 
assent.  What  are  you  saying,  Fludder?  " 

"I  was  thinking,  sir,"  said  Fludder  de 
ferentially,  in  a  lower  voice,  "that  if  any 
thing  was  wrong  in  the  reservoir,  this  shock, 
you  know,  might  "  — 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  faint  crashing 
and  crackling  sound,  and  looking  up,  be*- 
held  a  good-sized  boulder,  evidently  de 
tached  from  some  greater  height,  strike  the 
upland  plateau  at  the  left  of  the  trail  and 
bound  into  the  fringe  of  forest  beside  it. 
A  slight  cloud  of  dust  marked  its  course, 
and  then  lazily  floated  away  in  mid  air. 
But  it  had  been  watched  agitatedly,  and  it 
was  evident  that  that  singular  loss  of  ner 
vous  balance  which  is  apt  to  affect  all  those 
who  go  through  the  slightest  earthquake 
experience  was  felt  by  all.  But  some  sense 
of  humor,  however,  remained. 

"Looks  as  if  the  water  risks  we  took 
ain't  goin'  to  cover  earthquakes,"  drawled 
Dick  Frisney;  "still  that  wasn't  a  bad 
shot,  if  we  only  knew  what  they  were  aim 
ing  at." 

"Do  be  quiet,"  said  Virginia  Piper,  her 
cheeks  pink  with  excitement.  "Listen, 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  59 

can't  you?  What 's  that  funny  murmuring 
you  hear  now  and  then  up  there?" 

"It's  only  the  snow-wind  playin'  with 
the  pines  on  the  summit.  You  girls  won't 
allow  anybody  any  fun  but  yourselves." 

But  here  a  scream  from  "Georgy,"  who, 
assisted  by  Captain  Fairfax,  had  mounted 
a  camp-stool  at  the  mouth  of  the  valley, 
attracted  everybody's  attention.  She  was 
standing  upright,  with  dilated  eyes,  staring 
at  the  top  of  the  trail.  "Look!  "  she  said 
excitedly,  "if  the  trail  isn't  moving!  " 

Everybody  faced  in  that  direction.  At 
the  first  glance  it  seemed  indeed  as  if  the 
trail  was  actually  moving;  wriggling  and 
undulating  its  tortuous  way  down  the  moun 
tain  like  a  huge  snake,  only  swollen  to  twice 
its  usual  size.  But  the  second  glance  showed 
it  to  be  no  longer  a  trail  but  a  channel  of 
waier,  whose  stream,  lifted  in  a  bore-like 
wall  four  or  five  feet  high,  was  plunging 
down  into  the  devoted  valley. 

For  an  instant  they  were  unable  to  com 
prehend  even  the  nature  of  the  catastrophe. 
The  reservoir  was  directly  over  their  heads ; 
the  bursting  of  its  wall  they  had  imagined 
would  naturally  bring  down  the  water  in 
a  dozen  trickling  streams  or  falls  over  the 


60  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

cliff  above  them  and  along  the  flanks  of 
the  mountain.  But  that  its  suddenly  liber 
ated  volume  should  overflow  the  upland  be 
yond  and  then  descend  in  a  pent-up  flood 
by  their  own  trail  and  their  only  avenue 
of  escape,  had  been  beyond  their  wildest 
fancy. 

They  met  this  smiting  truth  with  that 
characteristic  short  laugh  with  which  the 
American  usually  receives  the  blow  of  Fate 
or  the  unexpected  —  as  if  he  recognized 
only  the  absurdity  of  the  situation.  Then 
they  ran  to  the  women,  collected  them  to 
gether,  and  dragged  them  to  vantages  of 
fancied  security  among  the  bushes  which 
flounced  the  long  skirts  of  the  mountain 
walls.  But  I  leave  this  part  of  the  descrip 
tion  to  the  characteristic  language  of  one 
of  the  party :  — 

"When  the  flood  struck  us,  it  did  not 
seem  to  take  any  stock  of  us  in  particular, 
but  laid  itself  out  to  '  go  for '  that  picnic 
for  all  it  was  worth!  It  wiped  it  off  the 
face  of  the  earth  in  about  twenty-five  sec 
onds!  It  first  made  a  clean  break  from 
stem  to  stern,  carrying  everything  along 
with  it.  The  first  thing  I  saw  was  old 
Judge  Piper,  puttin'  on  his  best  licks  to 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  61 

get  away  from  a  big  can  of  strawberry  ice 
cream  that  was  trundling  after  him  and  try 
ing  to  empty  itself  on  his  collar,  whenever 
a  bigger  wave  lifted  it.  He  was  followed 
by  what  was  left  of  the  brass  band ;  the  big 
drum  just  humpin'  itself  to  keep  abreast  o' 
the  ice  cream,  mixed  up  with  camp-stools, 
music-stands,  a  few  Chinamen,  and  then 
what  they  call  in  them  big  San  Francisco 
processions  '  citizens  generally. '  The  hull 
thing  swept  up  the  canon  inside  o'  thirty 
seconds.  Then,  what  Captain  Fairfax 
called  '  the  reflex  action  in  the  laws  o'  mo 
tion'  happened,  and  darned  if  the  hull 
blamed  procession  didn't  sweep  back  again 
—  this  time  all  the  heavy  artillery,  such 
as  camp-kettles,  lager  beer  kegs,  bottles, 
glasses,  and  crockery  that  was  left  behind 
takin'  the  lead  now,  and  Judge  Piper  and 
that  ice  cream  can  bringin'  up  the  rear. 
As  the  jedge  passed  us  the  second  time,  we 
noticed  that  that  ice  cream  can  —  hevin' 
swallowed  water  —  was  kinder  losing  its 
wind,  and  we  encouraged  the  old  man  by 
shoutin'  out,  '  Five  to  one  on  him ! '  And 
then,  you  wouldn't  believe  what  followed. 
Why,  darn  my  skin,  when  that  '  reflex  '  met 
the  current  at  the  other  end,  it  just  swirled 


62  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

around  again  in  what  Captain  Fairfax 
called  the  'centrifugal  curve,'  and  just 
went  round  and  round  the  canon  like  ez 
when  yer  washin'  the  dirt  out  o'  a  prospect- 
in'  pan  —  every  now  and  then  washin'  some 
one  of  the  boys  that  was  in  it,  like  scum, 
up  ag'in  the  banks. 

"We  managed  in  this  way  to  snake  out 
the  judge,  jest  ez  he  was  sailin'  round  on 
the  home  stretch,  passin'  the  quarter  post 
two  lengths  ahead  o'  the  can.  A  good  deal 
o'  the  ice  cream  had  washed  away,  but  it 
took  us  ten  minutes  to  shake  the  cracked 
ice  and  powdered  salt  out  o'  the  old  man's 
clothes,  and  warm  him  up  again  in  the 
laurel  bush  where  he  was  clinging.  This 
sort  o'  '  Here  we  go  round  the  mulberry 
bush '  kep'  on  until  most  o'  the  humans 
was  got  out,  and  only  the  furniture  o'  the 
picnic  was  left  in  the  race.  Then  it  got 
kinder  mixed  up,  and  went  sloshin'  round 
here  and  there,  ez  the  water  kep'  comin' 
down  by  the  trail.  Then  Lulu  Piper,  what 
I  was  holdin'  up  all  the  time  in  a  laurel 
bush,  gets  an  idea,  for  all  she  was  wet  and 
draggled;  and  ez  the  things  went  bobbin' 
round,  she  calls  out  the  figures  o'  a  cotillon 
to  'em.  '  Two  camp-stools  forward.'  '  Sa- 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  63 

shay  and  back  to  your  places.'  '  Change 
partners.'  '  Hands  all  round.' 

"She  was  clear  grit,  you  bet!  And  the 
joke  caught  on  and  the  other  girls  jined 
in,  and  it  kinder  cheered  'em,  for  they  was 
wantin'  it.  Then  Fludder  allowed  to  pa 
cify  'em  by  say  in'  he  just  figured  up  the 
size  o'  the  reservoir  and  the  size  o'  the 
canon,  and  he  kalkilated  that  the  cube  was 
about  ekal,  and  the  canon  couldn't  flood 
any  more.  And  then  Lulu  —  who  was  peart 
as  a  jay  and  couldn't  be  fooled  —  speaks 
up  and  says,  '  What 's  the  matter  with  the 
ditch,  Dick?' 

"  Lord  !  then  we  knew  that  she  knew  the 
worst;  for  of  course  all  the  water  in  the 
ditch  itself  —  fifty  miles  of  it!  —  was  drain- 
in'  now  into  that  reservoir  and  was  bound 
to  come  down  to  the  canon." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  situation 
became  really  desperate,  for  they  had  now 
crawled  up  the  steep  sides  as  far  as  the 
bushes  afforded  foothold,  and  the  water  was 
still  rising.  The  chatter  of  the  girls  ceased, 
there  were  long  silences,  in  which  the  men 
discussed  the  wildest  plans,  and  proposed  to 
tear  their  shirts  into  strips  to  make  ropes  to 
support  the  girls  by  sticks  driven  into  the 


64  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

mountain  side.  It  was  in  one  of  those  in 
tervals  that  the  distinct  strokes  of  a  wood 
man's  axe  were  heard  high  on  the  upland 
at  the  point  where  the  trail  descended  to 
the  canon.  Every  ear  was  alert,  but  only 
those  on  one  side  of  the  canon  could  get  a 
fair  view  of  the  spot.  This  was  the  good 
fortune  of  Captain  Fairfax  and  Georgy 
Piper,  who  had  climbed  to  the  highest  bush 
on  that  side,  and  were  now  standing  up, 
gazing  excitedly  in  that  direction. 

"  Some  one  is  cutting  down  a  tree  at  the 
head  of  the  trail,"  shouted  Fairfax.  The 
response  and  joyful  explanation,  "for  a  dam 
across  the  trail,"  was  on  everybody's  lips 
at  the  same  time. 

But  the  strokes  of  the  axe  were  slow  and 
painfully  intermittent.  Impatience  burst 
out. 

"Yell  to  him  to  hurry  up!  Why  have 
n't  they  brought  two  men?  " 

"It's  only  one  man,"  shouted  the  cap 
tain,  "and  he  seems  to  be  a  cripple.  By 
Jimmy !  —  it  is  —  yes !  —  it 's  Tom  Spar- 
rell!" 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then,  I  grieve 
to  say,  shame  and  its  twin  brother  rage  took 
possession  of  their  weak  humanity.  Oh, 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  65 

yes!  It  was  all  of  a  piece!  Why  in  the 
name  of  Folly  hadn't  he  sent  for  an  able- 
bodied  man.  Were  they  to  be  drowned 
through  his  cranky  obstinacy? 

The  blows  still  went  on  slowly.  Pre 
sently,  however,  they  seemed  to  alternate 
with  other  blows  —  but  alas !  they  were 
slower,  and  if  possible  feebler ! 

"Have  they  got  another  cripple  to  work?  " 
roared  the  Contingent  in  one  furious  voice. 

"No  —  it's  a  woman  —  a  little  one  — 
yes!  a  girl.  Hello!  Why,  sure  as  you 
live,  it 's  Delaware!  " 

A  spontaneous  cheer  burst  from  the  Con 
tingent,  partly  as  a  rebuke  to  Sparrell,  I 
think,  partly  from  some  shame  over  their 
previous  rage.  He  could  take  it  as  he 
liked. 

Still  the  blows  went  on  distressingly  slow. 
The  girls  were  hoisted  on  the  men's  shoul 
ders;  the  men  were  half  submerged.  Then 
there  was  a  painful  pause;  then  a  crum 
bling  crash.  Another  cheer  went  up  from 
the  canon. 

"It's  down!  straight  across  the  trail," 
shouted  Fairfax,  "and  a  part  of  the  bank 
on  the  top  of  it." 

There  was  another  moment  of  suspense. 


66  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

Would  it  hold  or  be  carried  away  by  the 
momentum  of  the  flood?  It  held!  In  a 
few  moments  Fairfax  again  gave  voice  to 
the  cheering  news  that  the  flow  had  stopped 
and  the  submerged  trail  was  reappearing. 
In  twenty  minutes  it  was  clear  —  a  muddy 
river  bed,  but  possible  of  ascent !  Of  course 
there  was  no  diminution  of  the  water  in  the 
canon,  which  had  no  outlet,  yet  it  now  was 
possible  for  the  party  to  swing  from  bush 
to  bush  along  the  mountain  side  until  the 
foot  of  the  trail  —  no  longer  an  opposing 
one  —  was  reached.  There  were  some  mis 
steps  and  mishaps,  —  flounderings  in  the 
water,  and  some  dangerous  rescues,  —  but 
in  half  an  hour  the  whole  concourse  stood 
upon  the  trail  and  commenced  the  ascent. 
It  was  a  slow,  difficult,  and  lugubrious  pro 
cession  —  I  fear  not  the  best-tempered  one, 
now  that  the  stimulus  of  danger  and  chiv 
alry  was  past.  When  they  reached  the 
dam  made  by  the  fallen  tree,  although  they 
were  obliged  to  make  a  long  detour  to  avoid 
its  steep  sides,  they  could  see  how  success 
fully  it  had  diverted  the  current  to  a  decliv 
ity  on  the  other  side. 

But  strangely  enough  they  were  greeted 
by  nothing  else !    Sparrell  and  the  youngest 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  67 

Miss  Piper  were  gone;  and  when  they  at 
last  reached  the  highroad,  they  were  as 
tounded  to  hear  from  a  passing  teamster 
that  no  one  in  the  settlement  knew  any 
thing  of  the  disaster ! 

This  was  the  last  drop  in  their  cup  of 
bitterness!  They  who  had  expected  that 
the  settlement  was  waiting  breathlessly  for 
their  rescue,  who  anticipated  that  they 
would  be  welcomed  as  heroes,  were  obliged 
to  meet  the  ill-concealed  amusement  of  pas 
sengers  and  friends  at  their  dishevelled  and 
bedraggled  appearance,  which  suggested 
only  the  blundering  mishaps  of  an  ordinary 
summer  outing!  "Boatin'  in  the  reservoir, 
and  fell  in?"  "Playing  at  canal-boat  in 
the  Ditch?"  were  some  of  the  cheerful  hy 
potheses.  The  fleeting  sense  of  gratitude 
they  had  felt  for  their  deliverers  was  dissi 
pated  by  the  time  they  had  reached  their 
homes,  and  their  rancor  increased  by  the 
information  that  when  the  earthquake  oc 
curred  Mr.  Tom  Sparrell  and  Miss  Dela 
ware  were  enjoying  a  "pasear"  in  the  for 
est  —  he  having  a  half -holiday  by  virtue  of 
the  festival  —  and  that  the  earthquake  had 
revived  his  fears  of  a  catastrophe.  The 
two  had  procured  axes  in  the  woodman's 


68  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

hut  and  did  what  they  thought  was  neces 
sary  to  relieve  the  situation  of  the  picnick 
ers.  But  the  very  modesty  of  this  account 
of  their  own  performance  had  the  effect  of 
belittling  the  catastrophe  itself,  and  the 
picnickers'  report  of  their  exceeding  peril 
was  received  with  incredulous  laughter. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  Red 
Gulch  there  was  a  serious  division  between 
the  Piper  family,  supported  by  the  Contin 
gent,  and  the  rest  of  the  settlement.  Tom 
Sparrell's  warning  was  remembered  by  the 
latter,  and  the  ingratitude  of  the  picnickers 
to  their  rescuers  commented  upon ;  the  ac 
tual  calamity  to  the  reservoir  was  more  or 
less  attributed  to  the  imprudent  and  reck 
less  contiguity  of  the  revelers  on  that  day, 
and  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  re 
ferred  the  accident  itself  to  the  machina 
tions  of  the  scheming  Ditch  Director  Piper ! 

It  was  said  that  there  was  a  stormy  scene 
in  the  Piper  household  that  evening.  The 
judge  had  demanded  that  Delaware  should 
break  off  her  acquaintance  with  Sparrell, 
and  she  had  refused;  the  judge  had  de 
manded  of  Sparrell's  employer  that  he 
should  discharge  him,  and  had  been  met 
with  the  astounding  information  that  Spar- 


THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER  69 

rell  was  already  a  silent  partner  in  the  con 
cern.  At  this  revelation  Judge  Piper  was 
alarmed;  while  he  might  object  to  a  clerk 
who  could  not  support  a  wife,  as  a  consist 
ent  democrat  he  could  not  oppose  a  fairly 
prosperous  tradesman.  A  final  appeal  was 
made  to  Delaware;  she  was  implored  to 
consider  the  situation  of  her  sisters,  who 
had  all  made  more  ambitious  marriages  or 
were  about  to  make  them.  Why  should 
she  now  degrade  the  family  by  marrying 
a  country  storekeeper? 

It  is  said  that  here  the  youngest  Miss 
Piper  made  a  memorable  reply,  and  a  reve 
lation  the  truth  of  which  was  never  gain 
said  :  — 

"You  all  wanter  know  why  I  'm  going  to 
marry  Tom  Sparrell?  "  she  queried,  stand 
ing  up  and  facing  the  whole  family  circle. 

"Yes." 

"Why  I  prefer  him  to  the  hull  caboodle 
that  you  girls  have  married  or  are  going  to 
marry?"  she  continued,  meditatively  biting 
the  end  of  her  braid. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  he's  the  only  man  of  the  whole 
lot  that  hasn't  proposed  to  me  first." 

It  is  presumed  that  Sparrell  made  good 


70  THE    YOUNGEST  MISS  PIPER 

the  omission,  or  that  the  family  were  glad 
to  get  rid  of  her,  for  they  were  married  that 
autumn.  And  really  a  later  comparison  of 
the  family  records  shows  that  while  Captain 
Fairfax  remained  "Captain  Fairfax,"  and 
the  other  sons-in-law  did  not  advance  pro 
portionately  in  standing  or  riches,  the  lame 
storekeeper  of  Ked  Gulch  became  the  Hon. 
Senator  Tom  Sparrell. 


A  WIDOW  OF  THE  SANTA  ANA 
VALLEY 

THE  Widow  Wade  was  standing  at  her 
bedroom  window  staring  out,  in  that  vague 
instinct  which  compels  humanity  in  mo 
ments  of  doubt  and  perplexity  to  seek  this 
change  of  observation  or  superior  illumina 
tion.  Not  that  Mrs.  Wade's  disturbance 
was  of  a  serious  character.  She  had  passed 
the  acute  stage  of  widowhood  by  at  least 
two  years,  and  the  slight  redness  of  her  soft 
eyelids  as  well  as  the  droop  of  her  pretty 
mouth  were  merely  the  recognized  outward 
and  visible  signs  of  the  grievously  minded 
religious  community  in  which  she  lived. 
The  mourning  she  still  wore  was  also  partly 
in  conformity  with  the  sad -colored  garments 
of  her  neighbors,  and  the  necessities  of  the 
rainy  season.  She  was  in  comfortable  cir 
cumstances,  the  mistress  of  a  large  ranch 
in  the  valley,  which  had  lately  become  more 
valuable  by  the  extension  of  a  wagon  road 
through  its  centre.  She  was  simply  worry 
ing  whether  she  should  go  to  a  "sociable" 


72      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

ending  with  "a  dance"  —  a  daring  innova 
tion  of  some  strangers  —  at  the  new  hotel, 
or  continue  to  eschew  such  follies,  that 
were,  according  to  local  belief,  unsuited  to 
"a  vale  of  tears." 

Indeed  at  this  moment  the  prospect  she 
gazed  abstractedly  upon  seemed  to  justify 
that  lugubrious  description.  The  Santa 
Ana  Valley  —  a  long  monotonous  level  — 
was  dimly  visible  through  moving  curtains 
of  rain  or  veils  of  mist,  to  the  black  mourn 
ing  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  had  looked 
like  that  for  months.  The  valley  —  in  some 
remote  epoch  an  arm  of  the  San  Francisco 
Bay  —  every  rainy  season  seemed  to  be  try 
ing  to  revert  to  its  original  condition,  and, 
long  after  the  early  spring  had  laid  on  its 
liberal  color  in  strips,  bands,  and  patches 
of  blue  and  yellow,  the  blossoms  of  mustard 
and  lupine  glistened  like  wet  paint.  Never 
theless  on  that  rich  alluvial  soil  Nature's 
tears  seemed  only  to  fatten  the  widow's 
acres  and  increase  her  crops.  Her  neigh 
bors,  too,  were  equally  prosperous.  Yet 
for  six  months  of  the  year  the  recognized 
expression  of  Santa  Ana  was  one  of  sadness, 
and  for  the  other  six  months  —  of  resigna 
tion.  Mrs.  Wade  had  yielded  early  to  this 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      73 

influence,  as  she  had  to  others,  in  the  weak 
ness  of  her  gentle  nature,  and  partly  as  it 
was  more  becoming  the  singular  tragedy  that 
had  made  her  a  widow. 

The  late  Mr.  Wade  had  been  found  dead 
with  a  bullet  through  his  head  in  a  secluded 
part  of  the  road  over  Heavy  Tree  Hill  in 
Sonora  County.  Near  him  lay  two  other 
bodies,  one  afterwards  identified  as  John 
Stubbs,  a  resident  of  the  Hill,  and  probably 
a  traveling  companion  of  Wade's,  and  the 
other  a  noted  desperado  and  highwayman, 
still  masked,  as  at  the  moment  of  the  at 
tack.  Wade  and  his  companion  had  prob 
ably  sold  their  lives  dearly,  and  against 
odds,  for  another  mask  was  found  on  the 
ground,  indicating  that  the  attack  was  not 
single-handed,  and  as  Wade's  body  had  not 
yet  been  rifled,  it  was  evident  that  the  re 
maining  highwayman  had  fled  in  haste. 
The  hue  and  cry  had  been  given  by  appar 
ently  the  only  one  of  the  travelers  who  es 
caped,  but  as  he  was  hastening  to  take  the 
overland  coach  to  the  East  at  the  time,  his 
testimony  could  not  be  submitted  to  the 
coroner's  deliberation.  The  facts,  however, 
were  sufficiently  plain  for  a  verdict  of  will 
ful  murder  against  the  highwayman,  al- 


74      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

though  it  was  believed  that  the  absent  wit 
ness  had  basely  deserted  his  companion  and 
left  him  to  his  fate,  or,  as  was  suggested  by 
others,  that  he  might  even  have  been  an 
accomplice.  It  was  this  circumstance  which 
protracted  comment  on  the  incident,  and 
the  sufferings  of  the  widow,  far  beyond  that 
rapid  obliteration  which  usually  overtook 
such  affairs  in  the  feverish  haste  of  the 
early  days.  It  caused  her  to  remove  to 
Santa  Ana,  where  her  old  father  had  feebly 
ranched  a  "quarter  section"  in  the  valley. 
He  survived  her  husband  only  a  few  months, 
leaving  her  the  property,  and  once  more 
in  mourning.  Perhaps  this  continuity  of 
woe  endeared  her  to  a  neighborhood  where 
distinctive  ravages  of  diphtheria  or  scarlet 
fever  gave  a  kind  of  social  preeminence  to 
any  household,  and  she  was  so  sympatheti 
cally  assisted  by  her  neighbors  in  the  man 
agement  of  the  ranch  that,  from  an  un 
kempt  and  wasteful  wilderness,  it  became 
paying  property.  The  slim,  willowy  figure, 
soft  red-lidded  eyes,  and  deep  crape  of 
" Sister  Wade"  at  church  or  prayer-meet 
ing  was  grateful  to  the  soul  of  these  gloomy 
worshipers,  and  in  time  she  herself  found 
that  the  arm  of  these  dyspeptics  of  mind 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      75 

and  body  was  nevertheless  strong  and  sus 
taining.  Small  wonder  that  she  should  hes 
itate  to-night  about  plunging  into  inconsist 
ent,  even  though  trifling,  frivolities. 

But  apart  from  this  superficial  reason, 
there  was  another  instinctive  one  deep  down 
in  the  recesses  of  Mrs.  Wade's  timid  heart 
which  she  had  kept  to  herself,  and  indeed 
would  have  tearfully  resented  had  it  been 
offered  by  another.  The  late  Mr.  Wade 
had  been,  in  fact,  a  singular  example  of 
this  kind  of  frivolous  existence  carried  to  a 
man-like  excess.  Besides  being  a  patron 
of  amusements,  Mr.  Wade  gambled,  raced, 
and  drank.  He  was  often  home  late,  and 
sometimes  not  at  all.  Not  that  this  conduct 
was  exceptional  in  the  "roaring  days"  of 
Heavy  Tree  Hill,  but  it  had  given  Mrs. 
Wade  perhaps  an  undue  preference  for  a 
less  certain,  even  if  a  more  serious  life. 
His  tragic  death  was,  of  course,  a  kind  of 
martyrdom,  which  exalted  him  in  the  femi 
nine  mind  to  a  saintly  memory;  yet  Mrs. 
Wade  was  not  without  a  certain  relief  in 
that.  It  was  voiced,  perhaps  crudely,  by 
the  widow  of  Abner  Drake  in  a  visit  of 
condolence  to  the  tearful  Mrs.  Wade  a  few 
days  after  Wade's  death.  "It's  a  vale  o' 


76      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

sorrow,  Mrs.  Wade,"  said  the  sympathizer, 
"but  it  has  its  ups  and  downs,  and  I  recken 
ye  '11  be  feelin'  soon  pretty  much  as  I  did 
about  Abner  when  he  was  took.  It  was 
mighty  soothin'  and  comfortin'  to  feel  that 
whatever  might  happen  now,  I  always  knew 
just  whar  Abner  was  passin'  his  nights." 
Poor  slim  Mrs.  Wade  had  no  disquieting 
sense  of  humor  to  interfere  with  her  recep 
tion  of  this  large  truth,  and  she  accepted  it 
with  a  burst  of  reminiscent  tears. 

A  long  volleying  shower  had  just  passed 
down  the  level  landscape,  and  was  followed 
by  a  rolling  mist  from  the  warm  saturated 
soil  like  the  smoke  of  the  discharge. 
Through  it  she  could  see  a  faint  lightening 
of  the  hidden  sun,  again  darkening  through 
a  sudden  onset  of  rain,  and  changing  as 
with  her  conflicting  doubts  and  resolutions. 
Thus  gazing,  she  was  vaguely  conscious  of 
an  addition  to  the  landscape  in  the  shape 
of  a  man  who  was  passing  down  the  road 
with  a  pack  on  his  back  like  the  tramping 
"prospectors"  she  had  often  seen  at  Heavy 
Tree  Hill.  That  memory  apparently  settled 
her  vacillating  mind;  she  determined  she 
would  not  go  to  the  dance.  But  as  she  was 
turning  away  from  the  window  a  second 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY     77 

figure,  a  horseman,  appeared  in  another 
direction  by  a  cross-road,  a  shorter  cut 
through  her  domain.  This  she  had  no  dif 
ficulty  in  recognizing  as  one  of  the  strangers 
who  were  getting  up  the  dance.  She  had 
noticed  him  at  church  on  the  previous  Sun 
day.  As  he  passed  the  house  he  appeared 
to  be  gazing  at  it  so  earnestly  that  she  drew 
back  from  the  window  lest  she  should  be 
seen.  And  then,  for  no  reason  whatever, 
she  changed  her  mind  once  more,  and  re 
solved  to  go  to  the  dance.  Gravely  announ 
cing  this  fact  to  the  wife  of  her  superintend 
ent  who  kept  house  with  her  in  her  lone 
liness,  she  thought  nothing  more  about 
it.  She  should  go  in  her  mourning,  with 
perhaps  the  addition  of  a  white  collar  and 
frill. 

It  was  evident,  however,  that  Santa  Ana 
thought  a  good  deal  more  than  she  did  of 
this  new  idea,  which  seemed  a  part  of  the 
innovation  already  begun  by  the  building 
up  of  the  new  hotel.  It  was  argued  by 
some  that  as  the  new  church  and  new  school- 
house  had  been  opened  by  prayer,  it  was 
only  natural  that  a  lighter  festivity  should 
inaugurate  the  opening  of  the  hotel.  "I 
reckon  that  dancin'  is  about  the  next  thing 


78      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

to  travelin'  for  gettin'  up  an  appetite  for 
refreshments,  and  that 's  what  the  landlord 
is  kalkilatin'  to  sarve,"  was  the  remark  of  a 
gloomy  but  practical  citizen  on  the  veranda 
of  "The  Valley  Emporium."  "That  's 
so,"  rejoined  a  bystander;  "and  I  notice 
on  that  last  box  o'  pills  I  got  for  chills  the 
directions  say  that  a  little  '  agreeable  exer 
cise  '  —  not  too  violent  —  is  a  great  assist 
ance  to  the  working  o'  the  pills." 

"I  reckon  that  that  Mr.  Brooks  who's 
down  here  lookin'  arter  mill  property,  got 
up  the  dance.  He  's  bin  round  town  can- 
vassin'  all  the  women  folks  and  drummin' 
up  likely  gals  for  it.  They  say  he  actooally 
sent  an  invite  to  the  Widder  Wade,"  re 
marked  another  lounger.  "Gosh!  he's  got 
cheek!" 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  the  proprietor 
judicially,  "while  we  don't  intend  to  hev 
any  minin'  camp  fandangos  or  'Frisco 
falals  round  Santa  Any  —  (Santa  Ana  was 
proud  of  its  simple  agricultural  virtues)  — 
I  ain't  so  hard-shelled  as  not  to  give  new 
things  a  fair  trial.  And,  after  all,  it 's  the 
women  folk  that  has  the  say  about  it. 
Why,  there  's  old  Miss  Ford  sez  she  hasn't 
kicked  a  fut  sence  she  left  Mizoori,  but 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      79 

would  n't  mind  trying  it  agin.  Ez  to 
Brooks  takin'  that  trouble  —  well,  I  sup 
pose  it 's  along  o'  his  bein'  healthy  f  "  He 
heaved  a  deep  dyspeptic  sigh,  which  was 
faintly  echoed  by  the  others.  "  Why,  look 
at  him  now,  ridin'  round  on  that  black  hoss 
o'  his,  in  the  wet  since  daylight  and  not 
carin'  for  blind  chills  or  rhumatiz!  " 

He  was  looking  at  a  serape-draped  horse 
man,  the  one  the  widow  had  seen  on  the 
previous  night,  who  was  now  cantering 
slowly  up  the  street.  Seeing  the  group  on 
the  veranda,  he  rode  up,  threw  himself 
lightly  from  his  saddle,  and  joined  them. 
He  was  an  alert,  determined,  good-looking 
fellow  of  about  thirty-five,  whose  smooth, 
smiling  face  hardly  commended  itself  to 
Santa  Ana,  though  his  eyes  were  distinctly 
sympathetic.  He  glanced  at  the  depressed 
group  around  him  and  became  ominously 
serious. 

"When  did  it  happen?"  he  asked 
gravely. 

"What  happen?"  said  the  nearest  by 
stander. 

"The  Funeral,  Flood,  Fight,  or  Fire. 
Which  of  the  four  F's  was  it  ?  " 

"What  are  ye  talkin'  about?"  said  the 


80      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

proprietor  stiffly,  scenting  some  dangerous 
humor. 

"  You"  said  Brooks  promptly.  "You  're 
all  standing  here,  croaking  like  crows,  this 
fine  morning.  I  passed  your  farm,  John 
son,  not  an  hour  ago ;  the  wheat  just  climb 
ing  out  of  the  black  adobe  mud  as  thick  as 
rows  of  pins  on  paper  —  what  have  you  to 
grumble  at?  I  saw  your  stock,  Briggs, 
over  on  Two-Mile  Bottom,  waddling  along, 
fat  as  the  adobe  they  were  sticking  in,  their 
coats  shining  like  fresh  paint  —  what's  the 
matter  with  you?  And,"  turning  to  the 
proprietor,  "there's  your  shed,  Saunders, 
over  on  the  creek,  just  bursting  with  last 
year's  grain  that  you  know  has  gone  up  two 
hundred  per  cent,  since  you  bought  it  at  a 
bargain  —  what  are  you  growling  at?  It 's 
enough  to  provoke  a  fire  or  a  famine  to 
hear  you  groaning  —  and  take  care  it  don't, 
some  day,  as  a  lesson  to  you." 

All  this  was  so  perfectly  true  of  the  pros 
perous  burghers  that  they  could  not  for  a 
moment  reply.  But  Briggs  had  recourse  to 
what  he  believed  to  be  a  retaliatory  taunt. 

"I  heard  you  've  been  askin'  Widow 
Wade  to  come  to  your  dance,"  he  said,  with 
a  wink  at  the  others.  "  Of  course  she  said 
'Yes.'" 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      81 

"Of  course  she  did,"  returned  Brooks 
coolly.  "I  've  just  got  her  note." 

"What?"  ejaculated  the  three  men  to 
gether.  "Mrs.  Wade  comin'?" 

"Certainly!  Why  shouldn't  she?  And 
it  would  do  you  good  to  come  too,  and  shake 
the  limp  dampness  out  o'  you,"  returned 
Brooks,  as  he  quietly  remounted  his  horse 
and  cantered  away. 

"Darned  ef  I  don't  think  he's  got  his 
eye  on  the  widder,"  said  Johnson  faintly. 

"Or  the  quarter  section,"  added  Briggs 
gloomily. 

For  all  that,  the  eventful  evening  came, 
with  many  lights  in  the  staring,  undraped 
windows  of  the  hotel,  coldly  bright  bunting 
on  the  still  damp  walls  of  the  long  dining- 
room,  and  a  gentle  downpour  from  the  hid 
den  skies  above.  A  close  carryall  was  espe 
cially  selected  to  bring  Mrs.  Wade  and  her 
housekeeper.  The  widow  arrived,  looking 
a  little  slimmer  than  usual  in  her  closely 
buttoned  black  dress,  white  collar  and  cuffs, 
very  glistening  in  eye  and  in  hair,  —  whose 
glossy  black  ringlets  were  perhaps  more 
elaborately  arranged  than  was  her  custom, 
—  and  with  a  faint  coming  and  going  of 
color,  due  perhaps  to  her  agitation  at  this 


82      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

tentative  reentering  into  worldly  life,  which 
was  nevertheless  quite  virginal  in  effect. 
A  vague  solemnity  pervaded  the  introduc 
tory  proceedings,  and  a  singular  want  of 
sociability  was  visible  in  the  "sociable" 
part  of  the  entertainment.  People  talked 
in  whispers  or  with  that  grave  precision 
which  indicates  good  manners  in  rural  com 
munities;  conversed  painfully  with  other 
people  whom  they  did  not  want  to  talk  to 
rather  than  appear  to  be  alone,  or  rushed 
aimlessly  together  like  water  drops,  and 
then  floated  in  broken,  adherent  masses  over 
the  floor.  The  widow  became  a  helpless, 
religious  centre  of  deacons  and  Sunday- 
school  teachers,  which  Brooks,  untiring,  yet 
fruitless,  in  his  attempt  to  produce  gayety, 
tried  in  vain  to  break.  To  this  gloom  the 
untried  dangers  of  the  impending  dance, 
duly  prefigured  by  a  lonely  cottage  piano 
and  two  violins  in  a  desert  of  expanse,  added 
a  nervous  chill.  When  at  last  the  music 
struck  up  —  somewhat  hesitatingly  and  pro- 
testingly,  from  the  circumstance  that  the 
player  was  the  church  organist,  and  fumbled 
mechanically  for  his  stops,  the  attempt  to 
make  up  a  cotillon  set  was  left  to  the  heroic 
Brooks.  Yet  he  barely  escaped  disaster 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      83 

when,  in  posing  the  couples,  he  incautiously 
begged  them  to  look  a  little  less  as  if  they 
were  waiting  for  the  coffin  to  be  borne  down 
the  aisle  between  them,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  burst  of  tears  from  Mrs.  Johnson,  who 
had  lost  a  child  two  years  before,  and  who 
had  to  be  led  away,  while  her  place  in  the 
set  was  taken  by  another.  Yet  the  cotillon 
passed  off;  a  Spanish  dance  succeeded; 
"Moneymusk,"  with  the  Virginia  Eeel,  put 
a  slight  intoxicating  vibration  into  the  air, 
and  healthy  youth  at  last  asserted  itself  in 
a  score  of  freckled  but  buxom  girls  in  white 
muslin,  with  romping  figures  and  laughter, 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  Still  a  rknd 

o 

decorum  reigned  among  the  elder  dancers, 
and  the  figures  were  called  out  in  grave 
formality,  as  if,  to  Brooks 's  fancy,  they  were 
hymns  given  from  the  pulpit,  until  at  the 
close  of  the  set,  in  half -real,  half -mock  de 
spair,  he  turned  desperately  to  Mrs.  Wade, 
his  partner :  — 

"Do  you  waltz?" 

Mrs.  Wade  hesitated.  She  had,  before 
marriage,  and  was  a  good  waltzer.  "I  do," 
she  said  timidly,  "but  do  you  think  they  "  — 

But  before  the  poor  widow  could  formu 
late  her  fears  as  to  the  reception  of  "round 


84      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

dances,"  Brooks  had  darted  to  the  piano, 
and  the  next  moment  she  heard  with  a 
"fearful  joy"  the  opening  bars  of  a  waltz. 
It  was  an  old  Julien  waltz,  fresh  still  in  the 
fifties,  daring,  provocative  to  foot,  swamp 
ing  to  intellect,  arresting  to  judgment,  irre 
sistible,  supreme!  Before  Mrs.  Wade  could 
protest,  Brooks 's  arm  had  gathered  up  her 
slim  figure,  and  with  one  quick  backward 
sweep  and  swirl  they  were  off!  The  floor 
was  cleared  for  them  in  a  sudden  bewilder 
ment  of  alarm  —  a  suspense  of  burning 
curiosity.  The  widow's  little  feet  tripped 
quickly,  her  long  black  skirt  swung  out; 
as  she  turned  the  corner  there  was  not  only 
a  sudden  revelation  of  her  pretty  ankles, 
but,  what  was  more  startling,  a  dazzling 
flash  of  frilled  and  laced  petticoat,  which  at 
once  convinced  every  woman  in  the  room 
that  the  act  had  been  premeditated  for 
days!  Yet  even  that  criticism  was  pre 
sently  forgotten  in  the  pervading  intoxica 
tion  of  the  music  and  the  movement.  The 
younger  people  fell  into  it  with  wild  romp- 
ings,  whirlings,  and  clasping  of  hands  and 
waists.  And  stranger  than  all,  a  coryban- 
tic  enthusiasm  seized  upon  the  emotionally 
religious,  and  those  priests  and  priestesses 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      85 

of  Cybele  who  were  famous  for  their  frenzy 
and  passion  in  camp-meeting  devotions 
seemed  to  find  an  equal  expression  that 
night  in  the  waltz.  And  when,  flushed  and 
panting,  Mrs.  Wade  at  last  halted  on  the 
arm  of  her  partner,  they  were  nearly 
knocked  over  by  the  revolving  Johnson  and 
Mrs.  Stubbs  in  a  whirl  of  gloomy  exulta 
tion  !  Deacons  and  Sunday-school  teachers 
waltzed  together  until  the  long  room  shook, 
and  the  very  bunting  on  the  walls  waved 
and  fluttered  with  the  gyrations  of  those 
religious  dervishes.  Nobody  knew  —  no 
body  cared  how  long  this  frenzy  lasted  —  it 
ceased  only  with  the  collapse  of  the  musi 
cians.  Then,  with  much  vague  bewilder 
ment,  inward  trepidation,  awkward  and  in 
coherent  partings,  everybody  went  dazedly 
home ;  there  was  no  other  dancing  after  that 
—  the  waltz  was  the  one  event  of  the  festi 
val  and  of  the  history  of  Santa  Ana.  And 
later  that  night,  when  the  timid  Mrs.  Wade, 
in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room  and  the 
disrobing  of  her  slim  figure,  glanced  at  her 
spotless  frilled  and  laced  petticoat  lying  on 
a  chair,  a  faint  smile  —  the  first  of  her  wid 
owhood  —  curved  the  corners  of  her  pretty 
mouth. 


86      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA  ANA    VALLEY 

A  week  of  ominous  silence  regarding  the 
festival  succeeded  in  Santa  Ana.  The  local 
paper  gave  the  fullest  particulars  of  the 
opening  of  the  hotel,  but  contented  itself 
with  saying:  "The  entertainment  concluded 
with  a  dance."  Mr.  Brooks,  who  felt  him 
self  compelled  to  call  upon  his  late  charming 
partner  twice  during  the  week,  characteris 
tically  soothed  her  anxieties  as  to  the  result. 
"The  fact  of  it  is,  Mrs.  Wade,  there's 
really  nobody  in  particular  to  blame  —  and 
that 's  what  gets  them.  They  're  all  mixed 
up  in  it,  deacons  and  Sunday-school  teach 
ers  ;  and  when  old  Johnson  tried  to  be  nasty 
the  other  evening  and  hoped  you  hadn't 
suffered  from  your  exertions  that  night,  I 
told  him  you  had  n't  quite  recovered  yet 
from  the  physical  shock  of  having  been  run 
into  by  him  and  Mrs.  Stubbs,  but  that,  you 
being  a  lady,  you  didn't  tell  just  how  you 
felt  at  the  exhibition  he  and  she  made  of 
themselves.  That  shut  him  up." 

"But  you  shouldn't  have  said  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Wade  with  a  frightened  little  smile. 

"No  matter,"  returned  Brooks  cheerfully. 
"I  '11  take  the  blame  of  it  with  the  others. 
You  see  they  '11  have  to  have  a  scapegoat 
—  and  I  'm  just  the  man,  for  I  got  up  the 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA  ANA    VALLEY      87 

dance !  And  as  I  'm  going  away,  I  suppose 
I  shall  bear  off  the  sin  with  me  into  the 
wilderness." 

"You're  going  away?"  repeated  Mrs. 
Wade  in  more  genuine  concern. 

"Not  for  long,"  returned  Brooks  laugh 
ingly.  "I  came  here  to  look  up  a  mill  site, 
and  I  've  found  it.  Meantime  I  think  I  've 
opened  their  eyes." 

"You  have  opened  mine,"  said  the  widow 
with  timid  frankness. 

They  were  soft  pretty  eyes  when  opened, 
in  spite  of  their  heavy  red  lids,  and  Mr. 
Brooks  thought  that  Santa  Ana  would  be 
no  worse  if  they  remained  open.  Possibly 
he  looked  it,  for  Mrs.  Wade  said  hurriedly, 
"I  mean  —  that  is  —  I've  been  thinking 
that  life  needn't  always  be  as  gloomy  as 
we  make  it  here.  And  even  here,  you  know, 
Mr.  Brooks,  we  have  six  months'  sunshine 
—  though  we  always  forget  it  in  the  rainy 
season." 

"That 's  so,"  said  Brooks  cheerfully.  "I 
once  lost  a  heap  of  money  through  my  own 
foolishness,  and  I  've  managed  to  forget  it, 
and  I  even  reckon  to  get  it  back  again  out 
of  Santa  Ana  if  my  mill  speculation  holds 
good.  So  good-by,  Mrs.  Wade  —  but  not 


88      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

for  long."  He  shook  her  hand  frankly  and 
departed,  leaving  the  widow  conscious  of  a 
certain  sympathetic  confidence  and  a  little 
grateful  for  —  she  knew  not  what. 

This  feeling  remained  with  her  most  of 
the  afternoon,  and  even  imparted  a  certain 
gayety  to  her  spirits,  to  the  extent  of  caus 
ing  her  to  hum  softly  to  herself;  the  air 
being  oddly  enough  the  Julien  Waltz.  And 
when,  later  in  the  day,  the  shadows  were 
closing  in  with  the  rain,  word  was  brought 
to  her  that  a  stranger  wished  to  see  her  in 
the  sitting-room,  she  carried  a  less  mournful 
mind  to  this  function  of  her  existence.  For 
Mrs.  Wade  was  accustomed  to  give  audience 
to  traveling  agents,  tradesmen,  working- 
hands  and  servants,  as  chatelaine  of  her 
ranch,  and  the  occasion  was  not  novel. 
Yet  on  entering  the  room,  which  she  used 
partly  as  an  office,  she  found  some  difficulty 
in  classifying  the  stranger,  who  at  first 
glance  reminded  her  of  the  tramping  miner 
she  had  seen  that  night  from  her  window. 
He  was  rather  incongruously  dressed,  some 
articles  of  his  apparel  being  finer  than 
others;  he  wore  a  diamond  pin  in  a  scarf 
folded  over  a  rough  "hickory"  shirt;  his 
light  trousers  were  tucked  in  common  min- 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      89 

ing  boots  that  bore  stains  o£  travel  and  a 
suggestion  that  he  had  slept  in  his  clothes. 
What  she  could  see  of  his  unshaven  face 
in  that  uncertain  light  expressed  a  kind  of 
dogged  concentration,  overlaid  by  an  as 
sumption  of  ease.  He  got  up  as  she  came 
in,  and  with  a  slight  "How  do,  ma'am," 
shut  the  door  behind  her  and  glanced  fur 
tively  around  the  room. 

"What  I  've  got  to  say  to  ye,  Mrs.  Wade, 
—  as  I  reckon  you  be,  —  is  strictly  private 
and  confidential !  Why,  ye  '11  see  afore  I 
get  through.  But  I  thought  I  might  just 
as  well  caution  ye  agin  our  being  disturbed." 

Overcoming  a  slight  instinct  of  repulsion, 
Mrs.  Wade  returned,  "You  can  speak  to 
me  here ;  no  one  will  interrupt  you  —  unless 
I  call  them,"  she  added  with  a  little  femi 
nine  caution. 

"And  I  reckon  ye  won't  do  that,"  he 
said  with  a  grim  smile.  "You  are  the 
widow  o'  Pulaski  Wade,  late  o'  Heavy  Tree 
Hill,  I  reckon?" 

"I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Wade. 

"And  your  husband  's  buried  up  thar  in 
the  graveyard,  with  a  monument  over  him 
setting  forth  his  virtues  ez  a  Christian  and 
a  square  man  and  a  high-minded  citizen? 


90      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

And  that  he  was  foully  murdered  by  high 
waymen?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wade,  "that  is  the  in 
scription." 

"Well,  ma'am,  a  bigger  pack  o'  lies 
never  was  cut  on  stone !  " 

Mrs.  Wade  rose,  half  in  indignation,  half 
in  terror. 

"Keep  your  sittin',"  said  the  stranger, 
with  a  warning  wave  of  his  hand.  "Wait 
till  I  'm  through,  and  then  you  call  in  the 
hull  State  o'  Californy,  ef  ye  want." 

The  stranger's  manner  was  so  doggedly 
confident  that  Mrs.  Wade  sank  back  trem 
blingly  in  her  chair.  The  man  put  his 
slouch  hat  on  his  knee,  twirled  it  round 
once  or  twice,  and  then  said  with  the  same 
stubborn  deliberation :  — 

"The  highwayman  in  that  business  was 
your  husband  —  Pulaski  Wade^ — and  his 
gang,  and  he  was  killed  by  one  o'  the  men 
he  was  robbin'.  Ye  see,  ma'am,  it  used  to 
be  your  husband's  little  game  to  rope  in 
three  or  four  strangers  in  a  poker  deal  at 
Spanish  Jim's  saloon  —  I  see  you  've  heard 
o'  the  place,"  he  interpolated  as  Mrs.  Wade 
drew  back  suddenly  —  "  and  when  he  could 
n't  clean  'em  out  in  that  way,  or  they 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      91 

showed  a  little  more  money  than  they 
played,  he  'd  lay  for  'em  with  his  gang  in 
a  lone  part  of  the  trail,  and  go  through 
them  like  any  road  agent.  That 's  what  he 
did  that  night  —  and  that's  how  he  got 
killed." 

"How  do  you  know  this?"  said  Mrs. 
Wade,  with  quivering  lips. 

"I  was  one  o'  the  men  he  went  through 
before  he  was  killed.  And  I  'd  hev  got  my 
money  back,  but  the  rest  o'  the  gang  came 
up,  and  I  got  away  jest  in  time  to  save  my 
life  and  nothin'  else.  Ye  might  remember 
thar  was  one  man  got  away  and  giv'  the 
alarm,  but  he  was  goin'  on  to  the  States 
by  the  overland  coach  that  night  and  could 
n't  stay  to  be  a  witness,  /was  that  man. 
I  had  paid  my  passage  through,  and  I  could 
n't  lose  that  too  with  my  other  money,  so 
I  went." 

Mrs.  Wade  sat  stunned.  She  remem 
bered  the  missing  witness,  and  how  she  had 
longed  to  see  the  man  who  was  last  with 
her  husband;  she  remembered  Spanish 
Jim's  saloon  —  his  well-known  haunt;  his 
frequent  and  unaccountable  absences,  the 
sudden  influx  of  money  which  he  always 
said  he  had  won  at  cards ;  the  diamond  ring 


92      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

he  had  given  her  as  the  result  of  "a  bet;" 
the  forgotten  recurrence  of  other  robberies 
by  a  secret  masked  gang;  a  hundred  other 
things  that  had  worried  her,  instinctively, 
vaguely.  She  knew  now,  too,  the  meaning 
of  the  unrest  that  had  driven  her  from 
Heavy  Tree  Hill  —  the  strange  unformu- 
lated  fears  that  had  haunted  her  even  here. 
Yet  with  all  this  she  felt,  too,  her  present 
weakness  —  knew  that  this  man  had  taken 
her  at  a  disadvantage,  that  she  ought  to 
indignantly  assert  herself,  deny  everything, 
demand  proof,  and  brand  him  a  slanderer! 

"  How  did  —  you  —  know  it  was  my  hus 
band?"  she  stammered. 

"His  mask  fell  off  in  the  fight;  you 
know  another  mask  was  found  —  it  was  his. 
I  saw  him  as  plainly  as  I  see  him  there! " 
he  pointed  to  a  daguerreotype  of  her  hus 
band  which  stood  upon  her  desk. 

Mrs.  Wade  could  only  stare  vacantly, 
hopelessly.  After  a  pause  the  man  contin 
ued  in  a  less  aggressive  manner  and  more 
confidential  tone,  which,  however,  only  in 
creased  her  terror.  "I  ain't  sayin'  that  you 
knowed  anything  about  this,  ma'am,  and 
whatever  other  folks  might  say  when  they 
know  of  it,  I  '11  allers  say  that  you  didn't." 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      93 

"What,  then,  did  you  come  here  for?" 
said  the  widow  desperately. 

"What  do  I  come  here  for?"  repeated 
the  man  grimly,  looking  around  the  room ; 
"what  did  I  come  to  this  yer  comfortable 
home  —  this  yer  big  ranch  and  to  a  rich 
woman  like  yourself  for?  Well,  Mrs. 
Wade,  I  come  to  get  the  six  hundred  dollars 
your  husband  robbed  me  of,  that's  all!  I 
ain't  askin'  more!  I  ain't  askin'  interest! 
I  ain't  askin'  compensation  for  havin'  to 
run  for  my  life  —  and,"  again  looking 
grimly  round  the  walls,  "I  ain't  askin' 
more  than  you  will  give  —  or  is  my  rights." 

"But  this  house  never  was  his;  it  was 
my  father's,"  gasped  Mrs.  Wade;  "you 
have  no  right "  — 

"Mebbe  'yes'  and  mebbe  'no,'  Mrs. 
Wade,"  interrupted  the  man,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hat ;  "  but  how  about  them  two  checks 
to  bearer  for  two  hundred  dollars  each  found 
among  your  husband's  effects,  and  collected 
by  your  lawyer  for  you  —  my  checks,  Mrs. 
Wade?"  , 

A  wave  of  dreadful  recollection  over 
whelmed  her.  She  remembered  the  checks 
found  upon  her  husband's  body,  known  only 
to  her  and  her  lawyer,  believed  to  be  gam- 


94      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

bling  gains,  and  collected  at  once  under  his 
legal  advice.  Yet  she  made  one  more  de 
sperate  effort  in  spite  of  the  instinct  that 
told  her  he  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"  But  you  shall  have  to  prove  it  —  before 
witnesses." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  prove  it  before  wit 
nesses?"  said  the  man,  coming  nearer  her. 
"Do  you  want  to  take  my  word  and  keep 
it  between  ourselves,  or  do  you  want  to  call 
in  your  superintendent  and  his  men,  and 
all  Santy  Any,  to  hear  me  prove  your  hus 
band  was  a  highwayman,  thief,  and  mur 
derer?  Do  you  want  to  knock  over  that 
monument  on  Heavy  Tree  Hill,  and  upset 
your  standing  here  among  the  deacons  and 
elders?  Do  you  want  to  do  all  this  and  be 
forced,  even  by  your  neighbors,  to  pay  me 
in  the  end,  as  you  will?  Ef  you  do,  call  in 
your  witnesses  now  and  let 's  have  it  over. 
Mebbe  it  would  look  better  ef  I  got  the 
money  out  of  your  friends  than  ye  —  a 
woman!  P'raps  you  're  right!  " 

He  made  a  step  towards  the  door,  but 
she  stopped  him. 

"No!  no!  wait!  It's  a  large  sum — I 
haven't  it  with  me,"  she  stammered,  thor 
oughly  beaten. 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      95 

"Ye  kin  get  it." 

"Give  me  time!  "  she  implored.  "Look! 
I  '11  give  you  a  hundred  down  now,  —  all  I 
have  here,  —  the  rest  another  time !  "  She 
nervously  opened  a  drawer  of  her  desk  and 
taking  out  a  buckskin  bag  of  gold  thrust  it 
in  his  hand.  "  There !  go  away  now !  "  She 
lifted  her  thin  hands  despairingly  to  her 
head.  "Go!  do!" 

The  man  seemed  struck  by  her  manner. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  a  woman,"  he 
said  slowly.  "  I  '11  go  now  and  come  back 
again  at  nine  to-night.  You  can  git  the 
money,  or  what 's  as  good,  a  check  to 
bearer,  by  then.  And  ef  ye  '11  take  my  ad 
vice,  you  won't  ask  no  advice  from  others, 
ef  you  want  to  keep  your  secret.  Just  now 
it's  safe  with  me;  I 'm  a  square  man,  ef 
I  seem  to  be  a  hard  one."  He  made  a 
gesture  as  if  to  take  her  hand,  but  as  she 
drew  shrinkingly  away,  he  changed  it  to  an 
awkward  bow,  and  the  next  moment  was 
gone. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  but  the  unwonted 
strain  upon  her  nerves  and  frail  body  had 
been  greater  than  she  knew.  She  made 
a  step  forward,  felt  the  room  whirl  round 
her  and  then  seem  to  collapse  beneath  her 


96      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

feet,  and,  clutching  at  her  chair,  sank  back 
into  it,  fainting. 

How  long  she  lay  there  she  never  knew. 
She  was  at  last  conscious  of  some  one  bend 
ing  over  her,  and  a  voice  —  the  voice  of 
Mr.  Brooks  —  in  her  ear,  saying,  "I  beg 
your  pardon;  you  seem  ill.  Shall  I  call 
some  one?" 

"No!"  she  gasped,  quickly  recovering 
herself  with  an  effort,  and  staring  round 
her.  "  Where  is  —  when  did  you  come 
in?" 

"Only  this  moment.  I  was  leaving  to 
night,  sooner  than  I  expected,  and  thought 
I  'd  say  good-by.  They  told  me  that  you 
had  been  engaged  with  a  stranger,  but 
he  had  just  gone.  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I 
see  you  are  ill.  I  won't  detain  you  any 
longer." 

"No!  no!  don't  go!  I  am  better  — 
better,"  she  said  feverishly.  As  she  glanced 
at  his  strong  and  sympathetic  face  a  wild 
idea  seized  her.  He  was  a  stranger  here, 
an  alien  to  these  people,  like  herself.  The 
advice  that  she  dare  not  seek  from  others, 
from  her  half-estranged  religious  friends, 
from  even  her  superintendent  and  his  wife, 
dare  she  ask  from  him?  Perhaps  he  saw 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY     97 

this  frightened  doubt,  this  imploring  appeal, 
in  her  eyes,  for  he  said  gently,  "  Is  it  any 
thing  I  can  do  for  you?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  the  sudden  despera 
tion  of  weakness;  "I  want  you  to  keep  a 
secret." 

"Yours ?  —  yes !  "  he  said  promptly. 

Whereat  poor  Mrs.  Wade  instantly  burst 
into  tears.  Then,  amidst  her  sobs,  she  told 
him  of  the  stranger's  visit,  of  his  terrible 
accusations,  of  his  demands,  his  expected 
return,  and  her  own  utter  helplessness.  To 
her  terror,  as  she  went  on  she  saw  a  singu 
lar  change  in  his  kind  face;  he  was  follow 
ing  her  with  hard,  eager  intensity.  She 
had  half  hoped,  even  through  her  fateful 
instincts,  that  he  might  have  laughed,  man 
like,  at  her  fears,  or  pooh-poohed  the  whole 
thing.  But  he  did  not.  "You  say  he 
positively  recognized  your  husband?"  he 
repeated  quickly. 

"Yes,  yes!"  sobbed  the  widow,  "and 
knew  that  daguerreotype!"  she  pointed  to 
the  desk. 

Brooks  turned  quickly  in  that  direction. 
Luckily  his  back  was  towards  her,  and  she 
could  not  see  his  face,  and  the  quick,  startled 
look  that  came  into  his  eyes.  But  when 


98      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

they  again  met  hers,  it  was  gone,  and  even 
their  eager  intensity  had  changed  to  a  gen 
tle  commiseration.  "You  have  only  his 
word  for  it,  Mrs.  Wade,"  he  said  gently, 
"and  in  telling  your  secret  to  another,  you 
have  shorn  the  rascal  of  half  his  power  over 
you.  And  he  knew  it.  Now,  dismiss  the 
matter  from  your  mind  and  leave  it  all  to 
me.  I  will  be  here  a  few  minutes  before 
nine  —  and  alone  in  this  room.  Let  your 
visitor  be  shown  in  here,  and  don't  let  us 
be  disturbed.  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  added 
with  a  faint  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "there  will 
be  no  fuss  and  no  exposure!  " 

It  lacked  a  few  minutes  of  nine  when 
Mr.  Brooks  was  ushered  into  the  sitting- 
room.  Ag  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  quietly 
examined  the  door  and  the  windows,  and 
having  satisfied  himself,  took  his  seat  in 
a  chair  casually  placed  behind  the  door. 
Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices  and 
a  heavy  footstep  in  the  passage.  He  lightly 
felt  his  waistcoat  pocket  —  it  contained  a 
pretty  little  weapon  of  power  and  precision, 
with  a  barrel  scarcely  two  inches  long. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  person  outside 
entered  the  room.  In  an  instant  Brooks 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY      99 

had  shut  the  door  and  locked  it  behind  him. 
The  man  turned  fiercely,  but  was  faced  by 
Brooks  quietly,  with  one  finger  calmly 
hooked  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  The  man 
slightly  recoiled  from  him  —  not  as  much 
from  fear  as  from  some  vague  stupefaction. 
"What's  that  for?  What's  your  little 
game?  "  he  said  half  contemptuously. 

"No  game  at  all,"  returned  Brooks  coolly. 
"You  came  here  to  sell  a  secret.  I  don't 
propose  to  have  it  given  away  first  to  any 
listener." 

"  You  don't  —  who  are  you  ?  " 

"That's  a  queer  question  to  ask  of  the 
man  you  are  trying  to  personate  —  but  I 
don't  wonder!  You  're  doing  it  d — d 
badly." 

"Personate  —  youV  said  the  stranger, 
with  staring  eyes. 

"Yes,  me,"  said  Brooks  quietly.  "I  am 
the  only  man  who  escaped  from  the  robbery 
that  night  at  Heavy  Tree  Hill  and  who 
went  home  by  the  Overland  Coach." 

The  stranger  stared,  but  recovered  him 
self  with  a  coarse  laugh.  "Oh,  well  I  we  're 
on  the  same  lay,  it  appears!  Both  after 
the  widow  —  afore  we  show  up  her  hus 
band." 


100      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Brooks,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  stranger.  "You 
are  here  to  denounce  a  highwayman  who  is 
dead  and  escaped  justice.  I  am  here  to 
denounce  one  who  is  living  !  —  Stop !  drop 
your  hand ;  it 's  no  use.  You  thought  you 
had  to  deal  only  with  a  woman  to-night, 
and  your  revolver  is  n't  quite  handy  enough. 
There !  down !  —  down !  So !  That  '11  do." 

"You  can't  prove  it,"  said  the  man 
hoarsely. 

"  Fool !  In  your  story  to  that  woman  you 
have  given  yourself  away.  There  were  but 
two  travelers  attacked  by  the  highwaymen. 
One  was  killed  -7—  I  am  the  other.  Where 
do  you  come  in?  What  witness  can  you 
be  —  except  as  the  highwayman  that  you 
are?  Who  is  left  to  identify  Wade  but  — 
his  accomplice!  " 

The  man's  suddenly  whitened  face  made 
his  unshaven  beard  seem  to  bristle  over  his 
face  like  some  wild  animal's.  "Well,  ef 
you  kalkilate  to  blow  me,  you  've  got  to 
blow  Wade  and  his  widder  too.  Jest  you 
remember  that,"  he  said  whiningly. 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  said  Brooks 
coolly,  "and  I  calculate  that  to  prevent  it 
is  worth  about  that  hundred  dollars  you  got 


A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY     101 

from  that  poor  woman  —  and  no  more! 
Now,  sit  down  at  that  table,  and  write  as 
I  dictate." 

The  man  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  but 
obeyed. 

"Write,"  said  Brooks,  "'I  hereby  cer 
tify  that  my  accusations  against  the  late 
Pulaski  Wade  of  Heavy  Tree  Hill  are  er 
roneous  and  groundless,  and  the  result  of 
mistaken  identity,  especially  in  regard  to 
any  complicity  of  his  in  the  robbery  of  John 
Stubbs,  deceased,  and  Henry  Brooks,  at 
Heavy  Tree  Hill,  on  the  night  of  the  13th 
August,  1854.'" 

The  man  looked  up  with  a  repulsive  smile. 
"Who's  the  fool  now,  Cap'n?  What's 
become  of  your  hold  on  the  widder,  now?  " 

"Write!  "  said  Brooks  fiercely. 

The  sound  of  a  pen  hurriedly  scratching 
paper  followed  this  first  outburst  of  the 
quiet  Brooks. 

"Sign  it,"  said  Brooks. 

The  man  signed  it. 

"Now  go,"  said  Brooks,  unlocking  the 
door,  "but  remember,  if  you  should  ever 
be  inclined  to  revisit  Santa  Ana,  you  will 
find  me  living  here  also." 

The  man  slunk  out  of  the  door  and  into 


102      A    WIDOW   OF  SANTA   ANA    VALLEY 

the  passage  like  a  wild  animal  returning  to 
the  night  and  darkness.  Brooks  took  up 
the  paper,  rejoined  Mrs.  Wade  in  the  par 
lor,  and  laid  it  before  her. 

"But,"  said  the  widow,  trembling  even 
in  her  joy,  "do  you  —  do  you  think  he  was 
really  mistaken?  " 

"Positive,"  said  Brooks  coolly.  "It's 
true,  it 's  a  mistake  that  has  cost  you  a 
hundred  dollars,  but  there  are  some  mis 
takes  that  are  worth  that  to  be  kept  quiet." 

They  were  married  a  year  later;  but  there 
is  no  record  that  in  after  years  of  conjugal 
relations  with  a  weak,  charming,  but  some 
times  trying  woman,  Henry  Brooks  was 
ever  tempted  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth  of 
the  robbery  of  Heavy  Tree  Hill. 


THE  MERMAID  OF    LIGHTHOUSE 
POINT 

SOME  forty  years  ago,  on  the  northern 
coast  of  California,  near  the  Golden  Gate, 
stood  a  lighthouse.  Of  a  primitive  class, 
since  superseded  by  a  building  more  in 
keeping  with  the  growing  magnitude  of  the 
adjacent  port,  it  attracted  little  attention 
from  the  desolate  shore,  and,  it  was  alleged, 
still  less  from  the  desolate  sea  beyond.  A 
gray  structure  of  timber,  stone,  and  glass, 
it  was  buffeted  and  harried  by  the  constant 
trade  winds,  baked  by  the  unclouded  six 
months'  sun,  lost  for  a  few  hours  in  the 
afternoon  sea-fog,  and  laughed  over  by  cir 
cling  guillemots  from  the  Farallones.  It 
was  kept  by  a  recluse  —  a  preoccupied  man 
of  scientific  tastes,  who,  in  shameless  con 
trast  to  his  fellow  immigrants,  had  applied 
to  the  government  for  this  scarcely  lucra 
tive  position  as  a  means  of  securing  the 
seclusion  he  valued  more  than  gold.  Some 
believed  that  he  was  the  victim  of  an  early 
disappointment  in  love  —  a  view  charitably 


104      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

taken  by  those  who  also  believed  that  the 
government  would  not  have  appointed  "a 
crank"  to  a  position  of  responsibility. 
Howbeit,  he  fulfilled  his  duties,  and,  with 
the  assistance  of  an  Indian,  even  cultivated 
a  small  patch  of  ground  beside  the  light 
house.  His  isolation  was  complete !  There 
was  little  to  attract  wanderers  here:  the 
nearest  mines  were  fifty  miles  away;  the 
virgin  forest  on  the  mountains  inland  were 
penetrated  only  by  sawmills  and  woodmen 
from  the  Bay  settlements,  equally  remote. 
Although  by  the  shore-line  the  lights  of  the 
great  port  were  sometimes  plainly  visible, 
yet  the  solitude  around  him  was  peopled 
only  by  Indians,  —  a  branch  of  the  great 
northern  tribe  of  "root-diggers," — peace 
ful  and  simple  in  their  habits,  as  yet  undis 
turbed  by  the  white  man,  nor  stirred  into  an 
tagonism  by  aggression.  Civilization  only 
touched  him  at  stated  intervals,  and  then 
by  the  more  expeditious  sea  from  the  gov 
ernment  boat  that  brought  him  supplies. 
But  for  his  contiguity  to  the  perpetual  tur 
moil  of  wind  and  sea,  he  might  have  passed 
a  restful  Arcadian  life  in  his  surroundings; 
for  even  his  solitude  was  sometimes  haunted 
by  this  faint  reminder  of  the  great  port 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      105 

hard  by  that  pulsated  with  an  equal  unrest. 
Nevertheless,  the  sands  before  his  door  and 
the  rocks  behind  him  seemed  to  have  been 
untrodden  by  any  other  white  man's  foot 
since  their  upheaval  from  the  ocean.  It 
was  true  that  the  little  bay  beside  him  was 
marked  on  the  map  as  "Sir  Francis  Drake's 
Bay,"  tradition  having  located  it  as  the 
spot  where  that  ingenious  pirate  and  empire- 
maker  had  once  landed  his  vessels  and 
scraped  the  barnacles  from  his  adventurous 
keels.  But  of  this  Edgar  Pomfrey  —  or 
"Captain  Pomfrey,"  as  he  was  called  by 
virtue  of  his  half -nautical  office  —  had 
thought  little. 

For  the  first  six  months  he  had  thoroughly 
enjoyed  his  seclusion.  In  the  company  of 
his  books,  of  which  he  had  brought  such  a 
fair  store  that  their  shelves  lined  his  snug 
corners  to  the  exclusion  of  more  comfortable 
furniture,  he  found  his  principal  recreation. 
Even  his  unwonted  manual  labor,  the  trim 
ming  of  his  lamp  and  cleaning  of  his  reflec 
tors,  and  his  personal  housekeeping,  in 
which  his  Indian  help  at  times  assisted,  he 
found  a  novel  and  interesting  occupation. 
For  outdoor  exercise,  a  ramble  on  the  sands, 
a  climb  to  the  rocky  upland,  or  a  pull  in 


106      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

the  lighthouse  boat,  amply  sufficed  him. 
"Crank"  as  he  was  supposed  to  be,  he  was 
sane  enough  to  guard  against  any  of  those 
early  lapses  into  barbarism  which  marked 
the  lives  of  some  solitary  gold-miners.  His 
own  taste,  as  well  as  the  duty  of  his  office, 
kept  his  person  and  habitation  sweet  and 
clean,  and  his  habits  regular.  Even  the 
little  cultivated  patch  of  ground  on  the  lee 
side  of  the  tower  was  symmetrical  and  well 
ordered.  Thus  the  outward  light  of  Cap 
tain  Pomfrey  shone  forth  over  the  wilder 
ness  of  shore  and  wave,  even  like  his  beacon, 
whatever  his  inward  illumination  may  have 
been. 

It  was  a  bright  summer  morning,  remark 
able  even  in  the  monotonous  excellence  of 
the  season,  with  a  slight  touch  of  warmth 
which  the  invincible  Northwest  Trades  had 
not  yet  chilled.  There  was  still  a  faint 
haze  off  the  coast,  as  if  last  night's  fog  had 
been  caught  in  the  quick  sunshine,  and  the 
shining  sands  were  hot,  but  without  the 
usual  dazzling  glare.  A  faint  perfume 
from  a  quaint  lilac -colored  beach-flower, 
whose  clustering  heads  dotted  the  sand  like 
bits  of  blown  spume,  took  the  place  of  that 
smell  of  the  sea  which  the  odorless  Pacific 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      107 

lacked.  A  few  rocks,  half  a  mile  away, 
lifted  themselves  above  the  ebb  tide  at  vary 
ing  heights  as  they  lay  on  the  trough  of  the 
swell,  were  crested  with  foam  by  a  striking 
surge,  or  cleanly  erased  in  the  full  sweep 
of  the  sea.  Beside,  and  partly  upon  one 
of  the  higher  rocks,  a  singular  object  was 
moving. 

Pomfrey  was  interested  but  not  startled. 
He  had  once  or  twice  seen  seals  disporting 
on  these  rocks,  and  on  one  occasion  a  sea- 
lion,  —  an  estray  from  the  familiar  rocks  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Golden  Gate.  But  he 
ceased  work  in  his  garden  patch,  and  com 
ing  to  his  house,  exchanged  his  hoe  for  a 
telescope.  When  he  got  the  mystery  in 
focus  he  suddenly  stopped  and  rubbed  the 
object-glass  with  his  handkerchief.  But 
even  when  he  applied  the  glass  to  his  eye 
for  a  second  time,  he  could  scarcely  believe 
his  eyesight.  For  the  object  seemed  to  be 
a  woman,  the  lower  part  of  her  figure  sub 
merged  in  the  sea,  her  long  hair  depending 
over  her  shoulders  and  waist.  There  was 
nothing  in  her  attitude  to  suggest  terror  or 
that  she  was  the  victim  of  some  accident. 
She  moved  slowly  and  complacently  with 
the  sea,  and  even  —  a  more  staggering  sug- 


108      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

gestion  —  appeared  to  be  combing  out  the 
strands  of  her  long  hair  with  her  fingers. 
With  her  body  half  concealed  she  might 
have  been  a  mermaid ! 

He  swept  the  foreshore  and  horizon  with 
his  glass;  there  was  neither  boat  nor  ship 
—  nor  anything  that  moved,  except  the 
long  swell  of  the  Pacific.  She  could  have 
come  only  from  the  sea;  for  to  reach  the 
rocks  by  land  she  would  have  had  to  pass 
before  the  lighthouse,  while  the  narrow  strip 
of  shore  which  curved  northward  beyond 
his  range  of  view  he  knew  was  inhabited 
only  by  Indians.  But  the  woman  was  un 
hesitatingly  and  appallingly  white,  and  her 
hair  light  even  to  a  golden  gleam  in  the 
sunshine. 

Pomfrey  was  a  gentleman,  and  as  such 
was  amazed,  dismayed,  and  cruelly  embar 
rassed.  If  she  was  a  simple  bather  from 
some  vicinity  hitherto  unknown  and  unsus 
pected  by  him,  it  was  clearly  his  business 
to  shut  up  his  glass  and  go  back  to  his 
garden  patch  —  although  the  propinquity  of 
himself  and  the  lighthouse  must  have  been 
as  plainly  visible  to  her  as  she  was  to  him. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  she  was  the  survivor 
of  some  wreck  and  in  distress  —  or,  as  he 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      109 

even  fancied  from  her  reckless  manner,  be 
reft  of  her  senses,  his  duty  to  rescue  her 
was  equally  clear.  In  his  dilemma  he  de 
termined  upon  a  compromise  and  ran  to  his 
boat.  He  would  pull  out  to  sea,  pass  be 
tween  the  rocks  and  the  curving  sand -spit, 
and  examine  the  sands  and  sea  more  closely 
for  signs  of  wreckage,  or  some  overlooked 
waiting  boat  near  the  shore.  He  would 
be  within  hail  if  she  needed  him,  or  she 
could  escape  to  her  boat  if  she  had  one. 

In  another  moment  his  boat  was  lifting 
on  the  swell  towards  the  rocks.  He  pulled 
quickly,  occasionally  turning  to  note  that 
the  strange  figure,  whose  movements  were 
quite  discernible  to  the  naked  eye,  was  still 
there,  but  gazing  more  earnestly  towards 
the  nearest  shore  for  any  sign  of  life  or 
occupation.  In  ten  minutes  he  had  reached 
the  curve  where  the  trend  opened  north 
ward,  and  the  long  line  of  shore  stretched 
before  him.  He  swept  it  eagerly  with  a 
single  searching  glance.  Sea  and  shore 
were  empty.  He  turned  quickly  to  the 
rock,  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  on  his  beam. 
It  was  empty  too !  Forgetting  his  previous 
scruples,  he  pulled  directly  for  it  until  his 
keel  grated  on  its  submerged  base.  There 


110      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

was  nothing  there  but  the  rock,  slippery 
with  the  yellow-green  slime  of  seaweed  and 
kelp  —  neither  trace  nor  sign  of  the  figure 
that  had  occupied  it  a  moment  ago.  He 
pulled  around  it ;  there  was  no  cleft  or 
hiding  -  place.  For  an  instant  his  heart 
leaped  at  the  sight  of  something  white, 
caught  in  a  jagged  tooth  of  the  outlying 
reef,  but  it  was  only  the  bleached  fragment 
of  a  bamboo  orange -crate,  cast  from  the 
deck  of  some  South  Sea  trader,  such  as 
often  strewed  the  beach.  He  lay  off  the 
rock,  keeping  way  in  the  swell,  and  scruti 
nizing  the  glittering  sea.  At  last  he  pulled 
back  to  the  lighthouse,  perplexed  and  dis 
comfited. 

Was  it  simply  a  sporting  seal,  trans 
formed  by  some  trick  of  his  vision?  But 
he  had  seen  it  through  his  glass,  and  now 
remembered  such  details  as  the  face  and 
features  framed  in  their  contour  of  golden 
hair,  and  believed  he  could  even  have  iden 
tified  them.  He  examined  the  rock  again 
with  his  glass,  and  was  surprised  to  see  how 
clearly  it  was  outlined  now  in  its  barren 
loneliness.  Yet  he  must  have  been  mis 
taken.  His  scientific  and  accurate  mind 
allowed  of  no  errant  fancy,  and  he  had  al- 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      111 

ways  sneered  at  the  marvelous  as  the  result 
of  hasty  or  superficial  observation.  He 
was  a  little  worried  at  this  lapse  of  his 
healthy  accuracy,  —  fearing  that  it  might  be 
the  result  of  his  seclusion  and  loneliness,  — 
akin  to  the  visions  of  the  recluse  and  soli 
tary.  It  was  strange,  too,  that  it  should 
take  the  shape  of  a  woman;  for  Edgar 
Pomfrey  had  a  story  —  the  usual  old  and 
foolish  one. 

Then  his  thoughts  took  a  lighter  phase, 
and  he  turned  to  the  memory  of  his  books, 
and  finally  to  the  books  themselves.  From 
a  shelf  he  picked  out  a  volume  of  old  voy 
ages,  and  turned  to  a  remembered  passage : 
"In  other  seas  doe  abound  marvells  soche 
as  Sea  Spyders  of  the  bigness  of  a  pinnace, 
the  wich  they  have  been  known  to  attack 
and  destroy;  Sea  Vypers  which  reach  to 
the  top  of  a  goodly  maste,  whereby  they  are 
able  to  draw  marinners  from  the  rigging  by 
the  suction  of  their  breathes;  and  Devill 
Fyshe,  which  vomit  fire  by  night  which 
makyth  the  sea  to  shine  prodigiously,  and 
mermaydes.  They  are  half  fyshe  and  half 
mayde  of  grate  Beauty,  and  have  been  seen 
of  divers  godly  and  creditable  witnesses 
swymming  beside  rocks,  hidden  to  their 


112      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

waist  in  the  sea,  combing  of  their  hayres, 
to  the  help  of  whych  they  carry  a  small 
mirrore  of  the  bigness  of  their  fingers." 
Pomfrey  laid  the  book  aside  with  a  faint 
smile.  To  even  this  credulity  he  might 
come! 

Nevertheless,  he  used  the  telescope  again 
that  day.  But  there  was  no  repetition  of 
the  incident,  and  he  was  forced  to  believe 
that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  some  extraor 
dinary  illusion.  The  next  morning,  how 
ever,  with  his  calmer  judgment  doubts  be 
gan  to  visit  him.  There  was  no  one  of 
whom  he  could  make  inquiries  but  his  In 
dian  helper,  and  their  conversation  had 
usually  been  restricted  to  the  language  of 
signs  or  the  use  of  a  few  words  he  had 
picked  up.  He  contrived,  however,  to  ask 
if  there  was  a  "waugee"  (white)  woman  in 
the  neighborhood.  The  Indian  shook  his 
head  in  surprise.  There  was  no  "waugee" 
nearer  than  the  remote  mountain-ridge  to 
which  he  pointed.  Pomfrey  was  obliged  to 
be  content  with  this.  Even  had  his  vocab 
ulary  been  larger,  he  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  revealing  the  embarrassing  secret 
of  this  woman,  whom  he  believed  to  be  of 
his  own  race,  to  a  mere  barbarian  as  he 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      113 

would  of  asking  him  to  verify  his  own  im 
pressions  by  allowing  him  to  look  at  her 
that  morning.  The  next  day,  however, 
something  happened  which  forced  him  to 
resume  his  inquiries.  He  was  rowing 
around  the  curving  spot  when  he  saw  a 
number  of  black  objects  on  the  northern 
sands  moving  in  and  out  of  the  surf,  which 
he  presently  made  out  as  Indians.  A  nearer 
approach  satisfied  him  that  they  were  wad 
ing  squaws  and  children  gathering  seaweed 
and  shells.  He  would  have  pushed  his  ac 
quaintance  still  nearer,  but  as  his  boat 
rounded  the  point,  with  one  accord  they  all 
scuttled  away  like  frightened  sandpipers. 
Pomfrey,  on  his  return,  asked  his  Indian 
retainer  if  they  could  swim.  "  Oh,  yes!" 
" As  far  as  the  rock?  "  "Yes."  Yet  Pom 
frey  was  not  satisfied.  The  color  of  his 
strange  apparition  remained  unaccounted 
for,  and  it  was  not  that  of  an  Indian  woman. 
Trifling  events  linger  long  in  a  monoto 
nous  existence,  and  it  was  nearly  a  week 
before  Pomfrey  gave  up  his  daily  telescopic 
inspection  of  the  rock.  Then  he  fell  back 
upon  his  books  again,  and,  oddly  enough, 
upon  another  volume  of  voyages,  and  so 
chanced  upon  the  account  of  Sir  Francis 


114      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

Drake's  occupation  of  the  bay  before  him. 
He  had  always  thought  it  strange  that  the 
great  adventurer  had  left  no  trace  or  sign 
of  his  sojourn  there ;  still  stranger  that  he 
should  have  overlooked  the  presence  of 
gold,  known  even  to  the  Indians  themselves, 
and  have  lost  a  discovery  far  beyond  his 
wildest  dreams  and  a  treasure  to  which  the 
cargoes  of  those  Philippine  galleons  he  had 
more  or  less  successfully  intercepted  were 
trifles.  Had  the  restless  explorer  been  con 
tent  to  pace  those  dreary  sands  during  three 
weeks  of  inactivity,  with  no  thought  of  pen 
etrating  the  inland  forests  behind  the  range, 
or  of  even  entering  the  nobler  bay  beyond? 
Or  was  the  location  of  the  spot  a  mere 
tradition  as  wild  and  unsupported  as  the 
"marvells  "  of  the  other  volume?  Pomfrey 
had  the  skepticism  of  the  scientific,  inquir 
ing  mind. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  and  he  was  return 
ing  from  a  long  climb  inland,  when  he 
stopped  to  rest  in  his  descent  to  the  sea. 
The  panorama  of  the  shore  was  before  him, 
from  its  uttermost  limit  to  the  lighthouse 
on  the  northern  point.  The  sun  was  still 
one  hour  high,  it  would  take  him  about  that 
time  to  reach  home.  But  from  this  coign 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      115 

of  vantage  he  could  see  —  what  he  had  not 
before  observed  —  that  what  he  had  always 
believed  was  a  little  cove  on  the  northern 
shore  was  really  the  estuary  of  a  small 
stream  which  rose  near  him  and  eventually 
descended  into  the  ocean  at  that  point.  He 
could  also  see  that  beside  it  was  a  long  low 
erection  of  some  kind,  covered  with  thatched 
brush,  which  looked  like  a  "barrow,"  yet 
showed  signs  of  habitation  in  the  slight 
smoke  that  rose  from  it  and  drifted  inland. 
It  was  not  far  out  of  his  way,  and  he  re 
solved  to  return  in  that  direction.  On  his 
way  down  he  once  or  twice  heard  the  bark 
ing  of  an  Indian  dog,  and  knew  that  he 
must  be  in  the  vicinity  of  an  encampment. 
A  camp-fire,  with  the  ashes  yet  warm, 
proved  that  he  was  on  the  trail  of  one  of 
the  nomadic  tribes,  but  the  declining  sun 
warned  him  to  hasten  home  to  his  duty. 
When  he  at  last  reached  the  estuary,  he 
found  that  the  building  beside  it  was  little 
else  than  a  long  hut,  whose  thatched  and 
mud-plastered  mound-like  roof  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  a  cave.  Its  single  opening 
and  entrance  abutted  on  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  smoke  he  had  noticed  rolled  through 
this  entrance  from  a  smouldering  fire  within. 


116      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

Pomfrey  had  little  difficulty  in  recognizing 
the  purpose  of  this  strange  structure  from 
the  accounts  he  had  heard  from  "loggers" 
of  the  Indian  customs.  The  cave  was  a 
"sweat-house"  —  a  calorific  chamber  in 
which  the  Indians  closely  shut  themselves, 
naked,  with  a  "smudge"  or  smouldering 
fire  of  leaves,  until,  perspiring  and  half 
suffocated,  they  rushed  from  the  entrance 
and  threw  themselves  into  the  water  before 
it.  The  still  smouldering  fire  told  him  that 
the  house  had  been  used  that  morning,  and 
he  made  no  doubt  that  the  Indians  were  en 
camped  near  by.  He  would  have  liked  to 
pursue  his  researches  further,  but  he  found 
he  had  already  trespassed  upon  his  remain 
ing  time,  and  he  turned  somewhat  abruptly 
away  —  so  abruptly,  in  fact,  that  a  figure, 
which  had  evidently  been  cautiously  follow 
ing  him  at  a  distance,  had  not  time  to  get 
away.  His  heart  leaped  with  astonishment. 
It  was  the  woman  he  had  seen  on  the  rock. 

Although  her  native  dress  now  only  dis 
closed  her  head  and  hands,  there  was  no 
doubt  about  her  color,  and  it  was  distinctly 
white,  save  for  the  tanning  of  exposure  and 
a  slight  red  ochre  marking  on  her  low  fore 
head.  And  her  hair,  long  and  unkempt  as 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      117 

it  was,  showed  that  he  had  not  erred  in  his 
first  impression  of  it.  It  was  a  tawny 
flaxen,  with  fainter  bleachings  where  the 
sun  had  touched  it  most.  Her  eyes  were 
of  a  clear  Northern  blue.  Her  dress,  which 
was  quite  distinctive  in  that  it  was  neither 
the  cast  off  finery  of  civilization  nor  the 
cheap  "government"  flannels  and  calicoes 
usually  worn  by  the  Californian  tribes,  was 
purely  native,  and  of  fringed  deerskin,  and 
consisted  of  a  long,  loose  shirt  and  leggings 
worked  with  bright  feathers  and  colored 
shells.  A  necklace,  also  of  shells  and  fancy 
pebbles,  hung  round  her  neck.  She  seemed 
to  be  a  fully  developed  woman,  in  spite  of 
the  girlishness  of  her  flowing  hair,  and 
notwithstanding  the  shapeless  length  of  her 
gaberdine-like  garment,  taller  than  the  ordi 
nary  squaw. 

Pomfrey  saw  all  this  in  a  single  flash  of 
perception,  for  the  next  instant  she  was 
gone,  disappearing  behind  the  sweat-house. 
He  ran  after  her,  catching  sight  of  her 
again,  half  doubled  up,  in  the  characteris 
tic  Indian  trot,  dodging  around  rocks  and 
low  bushes  as  she  fled  along  the  banks  of 
the  stream.  But  for  her  distinguishing 
hair,  she  looked  in  her  flight  like  an  ordi- 


118      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

nary  frightened  squaw.  This,  which  gave 
a  sense  of  unmanliness  and  ridicule  to  his 
own  pursuit  of  her,  with  the  fact  that  his 
hour  of  duty  was  drawing  near  and  he  was 
still  far  from  the  lighthouse,  checked  him 
in  full  career,  and  he  turned  regretfully 
away.  He  had  called  after  her  at  first, 
and  she  had  not  heeded  him.  What  he 
would  have  said  to  her  he  did  not  know. 
He  hastened  home  discomfited,  even  em 
barrassed  —  yet  excited  to  a  degree  he  had 
not  deemed  possible  in  himself. 

During  the  morning  his  thoughts  were 
full  of  her.  Theory  after  theory  for  her 
strange  existence  there  he  examined  and 
dismissed.  His  first  thought,  that  she  was 
a  white  woman  —  some  settler's  wife  — 
masquerading  in  Indian  garb,  he  aban 
doned  when  he  saw  her  moving;  no  white 
woman  could  imitate  that  Indian  trot,  nor 
would  remember  to  attempt  it  if  she  were 
frightened.  The  idea  that  she  was  a  cap 
tive  white,  held  by  the  Indians,  became 
ridiculous  when  he  thought  of  the  nearness 
of  civilization  and  the  peaceful,  timid  char 
acter  of  the  "digger  "  tribes.  That  she  was 
some  unfortunate  demented  creature  who 
had  escaped  from  her  keeper  and  wandered 


ME  EM  AID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT     119 

into  the  wilderness,  a  glance  at  her  clear, 
frank,  intelligent,  curious  eyes  had  contra 
dicted.  There  was  but  one  theory  left  — 
the  most  sensible  and  practical  one  —  that 
she  was  the  offspring  of  some  white  man 
and  Indian  squaw.  Yet  this  he  found, 
oddly  enough,  the  least  palatable  to  his 
fancy.  And  the  few  half-breeds  he  had 
seen  were  not  at  all  like  her. 

The  next  morning  he  had  recourse  to  his 
Indian  retainer,  "Jim."  With  infinite 
difficulty,  protraction,  and  not  a  little  em 
barrassment,  he  finally  made  him  under 
stand  that  he  had  seen  a  "white  squaw" 
near  the  "sweat-house,"  and  that  he  wanted 
to  know  more  about  her.  With  equal  dif 
ficulty  Jim  finally  recognized  the  fact  of 
the  existence  of  such  a  person,  but  imme 
diately  afterwards  shook  his  head  in  an  em 
phatic  negation.  With  greater  difficulty 
and  greater  mortification  Pomfrey  presently 
ascertained  that  Jim's  negative  referred  to 
a  supposed  abduction  of  the  woman  which 
he  understood  that  his  employer  seriously 
contemplated.  But  he  also  learned  that 
she  was  a  real  Indian,  arid  that  there  were 
three  or  four  others  like  her,  male  and  fe 
male,  in  that  vicinity;  that  from  a  "skeena 


120      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

rhowitch "  (little  baby)  they  were  all  like 
that,  and  that  their  parents  were  of  the 
same  color,  but  never  a  white  or  "waugee" 
man  or  woman  among  them ;  that  they  were 
looked  upon  as  a  distinct  and  superior  caste 
of  Indians,  and  enjoyed  certain  privileges 
with  the  tribe;  that  they  superstitiously 
avoided  white  men,  of  whom  they  had  the 
greatest  fear,  and  that  they  were  protected 
in  this  by  the  other  Indians;  that  it  was 
marvelous  and  almost  beyond  belief  that 
Pomfrey  had  been  able  to  see  one,  for  no 
other  white  man  had,  or  was  even  aware  of 
their  existence. 

How  much  of  this  he  actually  understood, 
how  much  of  it  was  lying  and  due  to  Jim's 
belief  that  he  wished  to  abduct  the  fair 
stranger,  Pomfrey  was  unable  to  determine. 
There  was  enough,  however,  to  excite  his 
curiosity  strongly  and  occupy  his  mind  to 
the  exclusion  of  his  books  —  save  one. 
Among  his  smaller  volumes  he  had  found 
a  travel  book  of  the  "Chinook  Jargon," 
with  a  lexicon  of  many  of  the  words  com 
monly  used  by  the  Northern  Pacific  tribes. 
An  hour  or  two's  trial  with  the  astonished 
Jim  gave  him  an  increased  vocabulary  and 
a  new  occupation.  Each  day  the  incon- 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      121 

gruous  pair  took  a  lesson  from  the  lexicon. 
In  a  week  Pomfrey  felt  he  would  be  able 
to  accost  the  mysterious  stranger.  But  he 
did  not  again  surprise  her  in  any  of  his 
rambles,  or  even  in  a  later  visit  to  the 
sweat-house.  He  had  learned  from  Jim  that 
the  house  was  only  used  by  the  "bucks," 
or  males,  and  that  her  appearance  there 
had  been  accidental.  He  recalled  that  he 
had  had  the  impression  that  she  had  been 
stealthily  following  him,  and  the  recollec 
tion  gave  him  a  pleasure  he  could  not  ac 
count  for.  But  an  incident  presently  oc 
curred  which  gave  him  a  new  idea  of  her 
relations  towards  him. 

The  difficulty  of  making  Jim  understand 
had  hitherto  prevented  Pomfrey  from  in 
trusting  him  with  the  care  of  the  lantern ; 
but  with  the  aid  of  the  lexicon  he  had  been 
able  to  make  him  comprehend  its  working, 
and  under  Pomfrey 's  personal  guidance  the 
Indian  had  once  or  twice  lit  the  lamp  and 
set  its  machinery  in  motion.  It  remained 
for  him  only  to  test  Jim's  unaided  capa 
city,  in  case  of  his  own  absence  or  illness. 
It  happened  to  be  a  warm,  beautiful  sunset, 
when  the  afternoon  fog  had  for  once  de 
layed  its  invasion  of  the  shore -line,  that  he 


122      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

left  the  lighthouse  to  Jim's  undivided  care, 
and  reclining  on  a  sand-dune  still  warm 
from  the  sun,  lazily  watched  the  result  of 
Jim's  first  essay.  As  the  twilight  deep 
ened,  and  the  first  flash  of  the  lantern 
strove  with  the  dying  glories  of  the  sun, 
Pomfrey  presently  became  aware  that  he 
was  not  the  only  watcher.  A  little  gray 
figure  creeping  on  all  fours  suddenly  glided 
out  of  the  shadow  of  another  sand-dune  and 
then  halted,  falling  back  on  its  knees,  gaz 
ing  fixedly  at  the  growing  light.  It  was 
the  woman  he  had  seen.  She  was  not  a 
dozen  yards  away,  and  in  her  eagerness  and 
utter  absorption  in  the  light  had  evidently 
overlooked  him.  Pie  could  see  her  face 
distinctly,  her  lips  parted  half  in  wonder, 
half  with  the  breathless  absorption  of  a 
devotee.  A  faint  sense  of  disappointment 
came  over  him.  It  was  not  him  she  was 
watching,  but  the  light !  As  it  swelled  out 
over  the  darkening  gray  sand  she  turned  as 
if  to  watch  its  effect  around  her,  and  caught 
sight  of  Pomfrey.  With  a  little  startled 
cry  —  the  first  she  had  uttered  —  she  darted 
away.  He  did  not  follow.  A  moment  be 
fore,  when  he  first  saw  her,  an  Indian  salu 
tation  which  he  had  learned  from  Jim  had 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      123 

risen  to  his  lips,  but  in  the  odd  feeling 
which  her  fascination  of  the  light  had 
caused  him  he  had  not  spoken.  He  watched 
her  bent  figure  scuttling  away  like  some 
frightened  animal,  with  a  critical  conscious 
ness  that  she  was  really  scarce  human,  and 
went  back  to  the  lighthouse.  He  would 
not  run  after  her  again !  Yet  that  evening 
he  continued  to  think  of  her,  and  recalled 
her  voice,  which  struck  him  now  as  having 
been  at  once  melodious  and  childlike,  and 
wished  he  had  at  least  spoken,  and  perhaps 
elicited  a  reply. 

He  did  not,  however,  haunt  the  sweat- 
house  near  the  river  again.  Yet  he  still 
continued  his  lessons  with  Jim,  and  in  this 
way,  perhaps,  although  quite  unpremedi- 
tatedly,  enlisted  a  humble  ally.  A  week 
passed  in  which  he  had  not  alluded  to  her, 
when  one  morning,  as  he  was  returning 
from  a  row,  Jim  met  him  mysteriously  on 
the  beach. 

"S'pose  him  come  slow,  slow,"  said  Jim 
gravely,  airing  his  newly  acquired  English ; 
"make  no  noise — plenty  catchee  Indian 
maiden."  The  last  epithet  was  the  polite 
lexicon  equivalent  of  squaw. 

Pomfrey,    not    entirely   satisfied    in   his 


124      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

mind,  nevertheless  softly  followed  the  noise 
lessly  gliding  Jim  to  the  lighthouse.  Here 
Jim  cautiously  opened  the  door,  motioning 
Pomfrey  to  enter. 

The  base  of  the  tower  was  composed  of 
two  living  rooms,  a  storeroom  and  oil-tank. 
As  Pomfrey  entered,  Jim  closed  the  door 
softly  behind  him.  The  abrupt  transition 
from  the  glare  of  the  sands  and  sun  to  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  storeroom  at  first  pre 
vented  him  from  seeing  anything,  but  he 
was  instantly  distracted  by  a  scurrying  flut 
ter  and  wild  beating  of  the  walls,  as  of  a 
caged  bird.  In  another  moment  he  could 
make  out  the  fair  stranger,  quivering  with 
excitement,  passionately  dashing  at  the 
barred  window,  the  walls,  the  locked  door, 
and  circling  around  the  room  in  her  desper 
ate  attempt  to  find  an  egress,  like  a  captured 
seagull.  Amazed,  mystified,  indignant  with 
Jim,  himself,  and  even  his  unfortunate  cap 
tive,  Pomfrey  called  to  her  in  Chinook  to 
stop,  and  going  to  the  door,  flung  it  wide 
open.  She  darted  by  him,  raising  her  soft 
blue  eyes  for  an  instant  in  a  swift,  sidelong 
glance  of  half  appeal,  half -frightened  admi 
ration,  and  rushed  out  into  the  open.  But 
here,  to  his  surprise,  she  did  not  run  away. 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT     125 

On  the  contrary,  she  drew  herself  up  with 
a  dignity  that  seemed  to  increase  her  height, 
and  walked  majestically  towards  Jim,  who 
at  her  unexpected  exit  had  suddenly  thrown 
himself  upon  the  sand,  in  utterly  abject 
terror  and  supplication.  She  approached 
him  slowly,  with  one  small  hand  uplifted  in 
a  menacing  gesture.  The  man  writhed  and 
squirmed  before  her.  Then  she  turned, 
caught  sight  of  Pomfrey  standing  in  the 
doorway,  and  walked  quietly  away. 
Amazed,  yet  gratified  with  this  new  asser 
tion  of  herself,  Pomfrey  respectfully,  but 
alas!  incautiously,  called  after  her.  In  an 
instant,  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  she 
dropped  again  into  her  slouching  Indian 
trot  and  glided  away  over  the  sandhills. 

Pomfrey  did  not  add  any  reproof  of  his 
own  to  the  discomfiture  of  his  Indian  re 
tainer.  Neither  did  he  attempt  to  inquire 
the  secret  of  this  savage  girl's  power  over 
him.  It  was  evident  he  had  spoken  truly 
when  he  told  his  master  that  she  was  of  a 
superior  caste.  Pomfrey  recalled  her  erect 
and  indignant  figure  standing  over  the  pro 
strate  Jim,  and  was  again  perplexed  and 
disappointed  at  her  sudden  lapse  into  the 
timid  savage  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 


126      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

"Would  not  this  well-meant  but  miserable 
trick  of  Jim's  have  the  effect  of  increas 
ing  her  unreasoning  animal-like  distrust  of 
him?  A  few  days  later  brought  an  unex 
pected  answer  to  his  question. 

It  was  the  hottest  hour  of  the  day.  He 
had  been  fishing  off  the  reef  of  rocks  where 
he  had  first  seen  her,  and  had  taken  in  his 
line  and  was  leisurely  pulling  for  the  light 
house.  Suddenly  a  little  musical  cry  not 
unlike  a  bird's  struck  his  ear.  He  lay  on 
his  oars  and  listened.  It  was  repeated; 
but  this  time  it  was  unmistakably  recogni 
zable  as  the  voice  of  the  Indian  girl,  al 
though  he  had  heard  it  but  once.  He 
turned  eagerly  to  the  rock,  but  it  was 
empty;  he  pulled  around  it,  but  saw  no 
thing.  He  looked  towards  the  shore,  and 
swung  his  boat  in  that  direction,  when 
again  the  cry  was  repeated  with  the  faintest 
quaver  of  a  laugh,  apparently  on  the  level 
of  the  sea  before  him.  For  the  first  time 
he  looked  down,  and  there  on  the  crest  of 
a  wave  not  a  dozen  yards  ahead,  danced 
the  yellow  hair  and  laughing  eyes  of  the 
girl.  The  frightened  gravity  of  her  look 
was  gone,  lost  in  the  flash  of  her  white  teeth 
and  quivering  dimples  as  her  dripping  face 


ME  EM  AID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      127 

rose  above  the  sea.  When  their  eyes  met 
she  dived  again,  but  quickly  reappeared  on 
the  other  bow,  swimming  with  lazy,  easy 
strokes,  her  smiling  head  thrown  back  over 
her  white  shoulder,  as  if  luring  him  to  a 
race.  If  her  smile  was  a  revelation  to  him, 
still  more  so  was  this  first  touch  of  feminine 
coquetry  in  her  attitude.  He  pulled  eagerly 
towards  her;  with  a  few  long  overhand 
strokes  she  kept  her  distance,  or,  if  he  ap 
proached  too  near,  she  dived  like  a  loon, 
coming  up  astern  of  him  with  the  same 
childlike,  mocking  cry.  In  vain  he  pursued 
her,  calling  her  to  stop  in  her  own  tongue, 
and  laughingly  protested ;  she  easily  avoided 
his  boat  at  every  turn.  Suddenly,  when 
they  were  nearly  abreast  of  the  river  estu 
ary,  she  rose  in  the  water,  and,  waving  her 
little  hands  with  a  gesture  of  farewell, 
turned,  and  curving  her  back  like  a  dolphin, 
leaped  into  the  surging  swell  of  the  estuary 
bar  and  was  lost  in  its  foam.  It  would 
have  been  madness  for  him  to  have  at 
tempted  to  follow  in  his  boat,  and  he  saw 
that  she  knew  it.  He  waited  until  her 
yellow  crest  appeared  in  the  smoother  water 
of  the  river,  and  then  rowed  back.  In  his 
excitement  and  preoccupation  he  had  quite 


128      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

forgotten  his  long  exposure  to  the  sun  dur 
ing  his  active  exercise,  and  that  he  was 
poorly  equipped  for  the  cold  sea-fog  which 
the  heat  had  brought  in  earlier,  and  which 
now  was  quietly  obliterating  sea  and  shore. 
This  made  his  progress  slower  and  more 
difficult,  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached 
the  lighthouse  he  was  chilled  to  the  bone. 

The  next  morning  he  woke  with  a  dull 
headache  and  great  weariness,  and  it  was 
with  considerable  difficulty  that  he  could 
attend  to  his  duties.  At  nightfall,  feeling 
worse,  he  determined  to  transfer  the  care 
of  the  light  to  Jim,  but  was  amazed  to  find 
that  he  had  disappeared,  and  what  was 
more  ominous,  a  bottle  of  spirits  which 
Pomfrey  had  taken  from  his  locker  the 
night  before  had  disappeared  too.  Like  all 
Indians,  Jim's  rudimentary  knowledge  of 
civilization  included  "fire-water;"  he  evi 
dently  had  been  tempted,  had  fallen,  and 
was  too  ashamed  or  too  drunk  to  face  his 
master.  Pomfrey,  however,  managed  to 
get  the  light  in  order  and  working,  and 
then,  he  scarcely  knew  how,  betook  him 
self  to  bed  in  a  state  of  high  fever.  He 
turned  from  side  to  side  racked  by  pain, 
with  burning  lips  and  pulses.  Strange  fan- 


MERMAID    OF   LIGHTHOUSE   POINT      129 

cies  beset  him;  he  had  noticed  when  he  lit 
his  light  that  a  strange  sail  was  looming  off 
the  estuary  —  a  place  where  no  sail  had 
ever  been  seen  or  should  be  —  and  was  re 
lieved  that  the  lighting  of  the  tower  might 
show  the  reckless  or  ignorant  mariner  his 
real  bearings  for  the  "Gate."  At  times  he 
had  heard  voices  above  the  familiar  song 
of  the  surf,  and  tried  to  rise  from  his  bed, 
but  could  not.  Sometimes  these  voices 
were  strange,  outlandish,  dissonant,  in  his 
own  language,  yet  only  partly  intelligible; 
but  through  them  always  rang  a  single 
voice,  musical,  familiar,  yet  of  a  tongue 
not  his  own  —  hers !  And  then,  out  of  his 
delirium  —  for  such  it  proved  afterwards  to 
be  —  came  a  strange  vision.  He  thought 
that  he  had  just  lit  the  light  when,  from 
some  strange  and  unaccountable  reason,  it 
suddenly  became  dim  and  defied  all  his 
efforts  to  revive  it.  To  add  to  his  discom 
fiture,  he  could  see  quite  plainly  through 
the  lantern  a  strange-looking  vessel  stand 
ing  in  from  the  sea.  She  was  so  clearly 
out  of  her  course  for  the  Gate  that  he  knew 
she  had  not  seen  the  light,  and  his  limbs 
trembled  with  shame  and  terror  as  he  tried 
in  vain  to  rekindle  the  dying  light.  Yet  to 


130      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

his  surprise  the  strange  ship  kept  steadily 
on,  passing  the  dangerous  reef  of  rocks, 
until  she  was  actually  in  the  waters  of  the 
bay.  But  stranger  than  all,  swimming  be 
neath  her  bows  was  the  golden  head  and 
laughing  face  of  the  Indian  girl,  even  as  he 
had  seen  it  the  day  before.  A  strange  re 
vulsion  of  feeling  overtook  him.  Believing 
that  she  was  luring  the  ship  to  its  destruc 
tion,  he  ran  out  on  the  beach  and  strove  to 
hail  the  vessel  and  warn  it  of  its  impending 
doom.  But  he  could  not  speak  —  no  sound 
came  from  his  lips.  And  now  his  attention 
was  absorbed  by  the  ship  itself.  High- 
bowed  and  pooped,  and  curved  like  the 
crescent  moon,  it  was  the  strangest  craft 
that  he  had  ever  seen.  Even  as  he  gazed  it 
glided  on  nearer  and  nearer,  and  at  last 
beached  itself  noiselessly  on  the  sands  before 
his  own  feet.  A  score  of  figures  as  bizarre 
and  outlandish  as  the  ship  itself  now 
thronged  its  high  forecastle  —  really  a  cas 
tle  in  shape  and  warlike  purpose  —  and 
leaped  from  its  ports.  The  common  sea 
men  were  nearly  naked  to  the  waist;  the 
officers  looked  more  like  soldiers  than  sail 
ors.  What  struck  him  more  strangely  was 
that  they  were  one  and  all  seemingly  un- 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      131 

conscious  of  the  existence  of  the  lighthouse, 
sauntering  up  and  down  carelessly,  as  if  on 
some  uninhabited  strand,  and  even  talking 
—  so  far  as  he  could  understand  their  old 
bookish  dialect  —  as  if  in  some  hitherto  un 
discovered  land.  Their  ignorance  of  the 
geography  of  the  whole  coast,  and  even  of 
the  sea  from  which  they  came,  actually 
aroused  his  critical  indignation ;  their  coarse 
and  stupid'  allusions  to  the  fair  Indian 
swimmer  as  the  "mermaid"  that  they  had 
seen  upon  their  bow  made  him  more  furious 
still.  Yet  he  was  helpless  to  express  his 
contemptuous  anger,  or  even  make  them 
conscious  of  his  presence.  Then  an  inter 
val  of  incoherency  and  utter  blankness  fol 
lowed.  When  he  again  took  up  the  thread 
of  his  fancy  the  ship  seemed  to  be  lying  on 
her  beam  ends  on  the  sand;  the  strange 
arrangement  of  her  upper  deck  and  top- 
hamper,  more  like  a  dwelling  than  any  ship 
he  had  ever  seen,  was  fully  exposed  to  view, 
while  the  seamen  seemed  to  be  at  work  with 
the  rudest  contrivances,  calking  and  scrap 
ing  her  barnacled  sides.  He  saw  that 
phantom  crew,  when  not  working,  at  was 
sail  and  festivity;  heard  the  shouts  of 
drunken  roisterers;  saw  the  placing  of  a 


132      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

guard  around  some  of  the  most  uncontrol 
lable,  and  later  detected  the  stealthy  escape 
of  half  a  dozen  sailors  inland,  amidst  the 
fruitless  volley  fired  upon  them  from  obso 
lete  blunderbusses.  Then  his  strange  vision 
transported  him  inland,  where  he  saw  these 
seamen  following  some  Indian  women. 
Suddenly  one  of  them  turned  and  ran  fren- 
ziedly  towards  him  as  if  seeking  succor, 
closely  pursued  by  one  of  the  sailors. 
Pomfrey  strove  to  reach  her,  struggled  vio 
lently  with  the  fearful  apathy  that  seemed 
to  hold  his  limbs,  and  then,  as  she  uttered 
at  last  a  little  musical  cry,  burst  his  bonds 
and  —  awoke ! 

As  consciousness  slowly  struggled  back 
to  him,  he  could  see  the  bare  wooden-like 
walls  of  his  sleeping-room,  the  locker,  the 
one  window  bright  with  sunlight,  the  open 
door  of  the  tank-room,  and  the  little  stair 
case  to  the  tower.  There  was  a  strange 
smoky  and  herb-like  smell  in  the  room. 
He  made  an  effort  to  rise,  but  as  he  did  so 
a  small  sunburnt  hand  was  laid  gently  yet 
restrainingly  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he 
heard  the  same  musical  cry  as  before,  but 
this  time  modulated  to  a  girlish  laugh.  He 
raised  his  head  faintly.  Half  squatting, 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE   POINT      133 

half  kneeling  by  his  bed  was  the  yellow- 
haired  stranger. 

With  the  recollection  of  his  vision  still 
perplexing  him,  he  said  in  a  weak  voice, 
"  Who  are  you?" 

Her  blue  eyes  met  his  own  with  quick 
intelligence  and  no  trace  of  her  former 
timidity.  A  soft,  caressing  light  had  taken 
its  place.  Pointing  with  her  finger  to  her 
breast  in  a  childlike  gesture,  she  said,  "Me 
—  Olooya." 

"  Olooya !  "  He  remembered  suddenly 
that  Jim  had  always  used  that  word  in 
speaking  of  her,  but  until  then  he  had 
always  thought  it  was  some  Indian  term 
for  her  distinct  class. 

"Olooya,"  he  repeated.  Then,  with  dif 
ficulty  attempting  to  use  her  own  tongue, 
he  asked,  "When  did  you  come  here?" 

"Last  night,"  she  answered  in  the  same 
tongue.  "There  was  no  witch-fire  there," 
she  continued,  pointing  to  the  tower ;  "  when 
it  came  not,  Olooya  came!  Olooya  found 
white  chief  sick  and  alone.  White  chief 
could  not  get  up!  Olooya  lit  witch-fire  for 
him." 

"You? "  he  repeated  in  astonishment. 
"I  lit  it  my  self." 


134      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

She  looked  at  him  pityingly,  as  if  still 
recognizing  his  delirium,  and  shook  her 
head.  "White  chief  was  sick  —  how  can 
know?  Olooya  made  witch-fire." 

He  cast  a  hurried  glance  at  his  watch 
hanging  on  the  wall  beside  him.  It  had 
run  down,  although  he  had  wound  it  the 
last  thing  before  going  to  bed.  He  had 
evidently  been  lying  there  helpless  beyond 
the  twenty -four  hours ! 

He  groaned  and  turned  to  rise,  but  she 
gently  forced  him  down  again,  and  gave 
him  some  herbal  infusion,  in  which  he  re 
cognized  the  taste  of  the  Yerba  Buena  vine 
which  grew  by  the  river.  Then  she  made 
him  comprehend  in  her  own  tongue  that 
Jim  had  been  decoyed,  while  drunk,  aboard 
a  certain  schooner  lying  off  the  shore  at  a 
spot  where  she  had  seen  some  men  digging 
in  the  sands.  She  had  not  gone  there,  for 
she  was  afraid  of  the  bad  men,  and  a  slight 
return  of  her  former  terror  came  into  her 
changeful  eyes.  She  knew  how  to  light 
the  witch-light ;  she  reminded  him  she  had 
been  in  the  tower  before. 

"You  have  saved  my  light,  and  perhaps 
my  life,"  he  said  weakly,  taking  her  hand. 

Possibly  she  did  not  understand  him,  for 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT     135 

her  only  answer  was  a  vague  smile.  But 
the  next  instant  she  started  up,  listening 
intently,  and  then  with  a  frightened  cry 
drew  away  her  hand  and  suddenly  dashed 
out  of  the  building.  In  the  midst  of  his 
amazement  the  door  was  darkened  by  a  fig 
ure —  a  stranger  dressed  like  an  ordinary 
miner.  Pausing  a  moment  to  look  after 
the  flying  Olooya,  the  man  turned  and 
glanced  around  the  room,  and  then  with  a 
coarse,  familiar  smile  approached  Pomfrey. 

"Hope  I  ain't  disturbin'  ye,  but  I  al 
lowed  I  'd  just  be  neighborly  and  drop  in  — 
seein'  as  this  is  gov'nment  property,  and 
me  and  my  pardners,  as  American  citizens 
and  tax-payers,  helps  to  support  it.  We  're 
coastin'  from  Trinidad  down  here  and  pro- 
spectin'  along  the  beach  for  gold  in  the 
sand.  Ye  seem  to  hev  a  mighty  soft  berth 
of  it  here  —  nothing  to  do  —  and  lots  of 
purty  half-breeds  hangin'  round!  " 

The  man's  effrontery  was  too  much  for 
Pomfrey 's  self-control,  weakened  by  illness. 
"It  is  government  property,"  he  answered 
hotly,  "and  you  have  no  more  right  to  in 
trude  upon  it  than  you  have  to  decoy  away 
my  servant,  a  government  employee,  during 
my  illness,  and  jeopardize  that  property." 


136      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

The  unexpectedness  of  tins  attack,  and 
the  sudden  revelation  of  the  fact  of  Pom- 
frey's  illness  in  his  flushed  face  and  hollow 
voice  apparently  frightened  and  confused 
the  stranger.  He  stammered  a  surly  ex 
cuse,  backed  out  of  the  doorway,  and  disap 
peared.  An  hour  later  Jim  appeared, 
crestfallen,  remorseful,  and  extravagantly 
penitent.  Pomfrey  was  too  weak  for  re 
proaches  or  inquiry,  and  he  was  thinking 
only  of  Olooya. 

She  did  not  return.  His  recovery  in  that 
keen  air,  aided,  as  he  sometimes  thought, 
by  the  herbs  she  had  given  him,  was  almost 
as  rapid  as  his  illness.  The  miners  did  not 
again  intrude  upon  the  lighthouse  nor  trou 
ble  his  seclusion.  When  he  was  able  to 
sun  himself  on  the  sands,  he  could  see  them 
in  the  distance  at  work  on  the  beach.  He 
reflected  that  she  would  not  come  back  while 
they  were  there,  and  was  reconciled.  But 
one  morning  Jim  appeared,  awkward  and 
embarrassed,  leading  another  Indian,  whom 
he  introduced  as  Olooya's  brother.  Pom- 
frey's  suspicions  were  aroused.  Except 
that  the  stranger  had  something  of  the  girl's 
superiority  of  manner,  there  was  no  likeness 
whatever  to  his  fair -haired  acquaintance. 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      137 

But  a  fury  of  indignation  was  added  to  his 
suspicions  when  he  learned  the  amazing 
purport  of  their  visit.  It  was  nothing  less 
than  an  offer  from  the  alleged  brother  to 
sett  his  sister  to  Pomfrey  for  forty  dollars 
and  a  jug  of  whiskey!  Unfortunately, 
Pomfrey 's  temper  once  more  got  the  better 
of  his  judgment.  With  a  scathing  exposi 
tion  of  the  laws  under  which  the  Indian 
and  white  man  equally  lived,  and  the  legal 
punishment  of  kidnaping,  he  swept  what 
he  believed  was  the  impostor  from  his  pre 
sence.  He  was  scarcely  alone  again  before 
he  remembered  that  his  imprudence  might 
affect  the  girl's  future  access  to  him,  but  it 
was  too  late  now. 

Still  he  clung  to  the  belief  that  he  should 
see  her  when  the  prospectors  had  departed, 
and  he  hailed  with  delight  the  breaking  up 
of  the  camp  near  the  "sweat-house"  and 
the  disappearance  of  the  schooner.  It 
seemed  that  their  gold-seeking  was  unsuc 
cessful;  but  Pomfrey  was  struck,  on  visit 
ing  the  locality,  to  find  that  in  their  exca 
vations  in  the  sand  at  the  estuary  they  had 
uncovered  the  decaying  timbers  of  a  ship's 
small  boat  of  some  ancient  and  obsolete 
construction.  This  made  him  think  of  his 


138      MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT 

strange  dream,  with  a  vague  sense  of  warn 
ing  which  he  could  not  shake  off,  and  on 
his  return  to  the  lighthouse  he  took  from 
his  shelves  a  copy  of  the  old  voyages  to  see 
how  far  his  fancy  had  been  affected  by  his 
reading.  In  the  account  of  Drake's  visit 
to  the  coast  he  found  a  footnote  which  he 
had  overlooked  before,  and  which  ran  as 
follows:  "The  Admiral  seems  to  have 
lost  several  of  his  crew  by  desertion,  who 
were  supposed  to  have  perished  miserably 
by  starvation  in  the  inhospitable  interior 
or  by  the  hands  of  savages.  But  later  voy 
agers  have  suggested  that  the  deserters 
married  Indian  wives,  and  there  is  a  legend 
that  a  hundred  years  later  a  singular  race 
of  half-breeds,  bearing  unmistakable  Anglo- 
Saxon  characteristics,  was  found  in  that 
locality."  Pomfrey  fell  into  a  reverie  of 
strange  hypotheses  and  fancies.  He  re 
solved  that,  when  he  again  saw  Olooya,  he 
would  question  her ;  her  terror  of  these  men 
might  be  simply  racial  or  some  hereditary 
transmission. 

But  his  intention  was  never  fulfilled. 
For  when  days  and  weeks  had  elapsed,  and 
he  had  vainly  haunted  the  river  estuary  and 
the  rocky  reef  before  the  lighthouse  without 


MERMAID    OF  LIGHTHOUSE  POINT      139 

a  sign  of  her,  he  overcame  his  pride  suffi 
ciently  to  question  Jim.  The  man  looked 
at  him  with  dull  astonishment. 

"Olooya  gone,"  he  said. 

"Gone!— where?" 

The  Indian  made  a  gesture  to  seaward 
which  seemed  to  encompass  the  whole  Pa 
cific. 

"How?  With  whom?"  repeated  his 
angry  yet  half-frightened  master. 

"  With  white  man  in  ship.  You  say  you 
no  want  Olooya  —  forty  dollars  too  much. 
White  man  give  fifty  dollars  —  takee  Olooya 
all  same." 


UNDER    THE    EAVES 

THE  assistant  editor  of  the  San  Francisco 
"Daily  Informer"  was  going  home.  So 
much  of  his  time  was  spent  in  the  office  of 
the  "Informer"  that  no  one  ever  cared  to 
know  where  he  passed  those  six  hours  of 
sleep  which  presumably  suggested  a  domi 
cile.  His  business  appointments  outside 
the  office  were  generally  kept  at  the  restau 
rant  where  he  breakfasted  and  dined,  or  of 
evenings  in  the  lobbies  of  theatres  or  the 
anterooms  of  public  meetings.  Yet  he  had 
a  home  and  an  interval  of  seclusion  of  which 
he  was  jealously  mindful,  and  it  was  to  this 
he  was  going  to-night  at  his  usual  hour. 

His  room  was  in  a  new  building  on  one 
of  the  larger  and  busier  thoroughfares. 
The  lower  floor  was  occupied  by  a  bank, 
but  as  it  was  closed  before  he  came  home, 
and  not  yet  opened  when  he  left,  it  did  not 
disturb  his  domestic  sensibilities.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  the  next  floor,  which  was 
devoted  to  stockbrokers'  and  companies' 
offices,  and  was  equally  tomb-like  and  silent 


UNDER   THE  EAVES  141 

when  he  passed;  the  floor  above  that  was 
a  desert  of  empty  rooms,  which  echoed  to 
his  footsteps  night  and  morning,  with  here 
and  there  an  oasis  in  the  green  sign  of  a 
mining  secretary's  office,  with,  however, 
the  desolating  announcement  that  it  would 
only  be  "open  for  transfers  from  two  to 
four  on  Saturdays."  The  top  floor  had 
been  frankly  abandoned  in  an  unfinished 
state  by  the  builder,  whose  ambition  had 
"o'erleaped  itself"  in  that  sanguine  era  of 
the  city's  growth.  There  was  a  smell  of 
plaster  and  the  first  coat  of  paint  about  it 
still,  but  the  whole  front  of  the  building 
was  occupied  by  a  long  room  with  odd 
"bull's-eye"  windows  looking  out  through 
the  heavy  ornamentations  of  the  cornice 
over  the  adjacent  roofs. 

It  had  been  originally  intended  for  a 
club -room,  but  after  the  ill  fortune  which 
attended  the  letting  of  the  floor  below,  and 
possibly  because  the  earthquake-fearing  San 
Franciscans  had  their  doubts  of  successful 
hilarity  at  the  top  of  so  tall  a  building,  it 
remained  unfinished,  with  the  two  smaller 
rooms  at  its  side.  Its  incomplete  and 
lonely  grandeur  had  once  struck  the  editor 
during  a  visit  of  inspection,  and  the  land- 


142  UNDER   THE  EAVES 

lord,  whom  he  knew,  had  offered  to  make 
it  habitable  for  him  at  a  nominal  rent.  It 
had  a  lavatory  with  a  marble  basin  and  a 
tap  of  cold  water.  The  offer  was  a  novel 
one,  but  he  accepted  it,  and  fitted  up  the 
apartment  with  some  cheap  second-hand 
furniture,  quite  inconsistent  with  the  carved 
mantels  and  decorations,  and  made  a  fair 
sitting-room  and  bedroom  of  it.  Here,  on 
a  Sunday,  when  its  stillness  was  intensified, 
and  even  a  passing  footstep  on  the  pave 
ment  fifty  feet  below  was  quite  startling,  he 
would  sit  and  work  by  one  of  the  quaint 
open  windows.  In  the  rainy  season,  through 
the  filmed  panes  he  sometimes  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  distant,  white-capped  bay, 
but  never  of  the  street  below  him. 

The  lights  were  out,  but,  groping  his  way 
up  to  the  first  landing,  he  took  from  a  cup- 
boarded  niche  in  the  wall  his  candlestick  and 
matches  and  continued  the  ascent  to  his 
room.  The  humble  candlelight  flickered  on 
the  ostentatious  gold  letters  displayed  on  the 
ground-glass  doors  of  opulent  companies 
which  he  knew  were  famous,  and  rooms 
where  millionaires  met  in  secret  conclave, 
but  the  contrast  awakened  only  his  sense  of 
humor.  Yet  he  was  always  relieved  after 


UNDER   THE   EAVES  143 

he  had  reached  his  own  floor.  Possibly  its 
incompleteness  and  inchoate  condition  made 
it  seem  less  lonely  than  the  desolation  of  the 
finished  and  furnished  rooms  below,  and  it 
was  only  this  recollection  of  past  human 
occupancy  that  was  depressing. 

He  opened  his  door,  lit  the  solitary  gas 
jet  that  only  half  illuminated  the  long  room, 
and,  it  being  already  past  midnight,  began 
to  undress  himself.  This  process  presently 
brought  him  to  that  corner  of  his  room 
where  his  bed  stood,  when  he  suddenly 
stopped,  and  his  sleepy  yawn  changed  to 
a  gape  of  surprise.  For,  lying  in  the  bed, 
its  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  its  rigid  arms 
accurately  stretched  down  over  the  turned - 
back  sheet,  was  a  child's  doll!  It  was  a 
small  doll  —  a  banged  and  battered  doll, 
that  had  seen  service,  but  it  had  evidently 
been  "tucked  in  "  with  maternal  tenderness, 
and  lay  there  with  its  staring  eyes  turned 
to  the  ceiling,  the  very  genius  of  insomnia! 

His  first  start  of  surprise  was  followed  by 
a  natural  resentment  of  what  might  have 
been  an  impertinent  intrusion  on  his  privacy 
by  some  practical-joking  adult,  for  he  knew 
there  was  no  child  in  the  house. 

His  room  was  kept  in  order  by  the  wife 


144  UNDER   THE  EAVES 

of  the  night  watchman  employed  by  the 
bank,  and  no  one  else  had  a  right  of  access 
to  it.  But  the  woman  might  have  brought 
a  child  there  and  not  noticed  its  disposal  of 
its  plaything.  He  smiled.  It  might  have 
been  worse!  It  might  have  been  a  real 
baby! 

The  idea  tickled  him  with  a  promise  of 
future  "copy"  —  of  a  story  with  farcical 
complications,  or  even  a  dramatic  ending, 
in  which  the  baby,  adopted  by  him,  should 
turn  out  to  be  somebody's  stolen  offspring. 
He  lifted  the  little  image  that  had  sug 
gested  these  fancies,  carefully  laid  it  on  his 
table,  went  to  bed,  and  presently  forgot  it 
all  in  slumber. 

In  the  morning  his  good-humor  and  in 
terest  in  it  revived  to  the  extent  of  writing 
on  a  slip  of  paper,  "Good-morning!  Thank 
yOU  —  I've  slept  very  well,"  putting  the 
slip  in  the  doll's  jointed  arms,  and  leaving 
it  in  a  sitting  posture  outside  his  door  when 
he  left  his  room.  When  he  returned  late 
at  night  it  was  gone. 

But  it  so  chanced  that,  a  few  days  later, 
owing  to  press  of  work  on  the  "Informer," 
he  was  obliged  to  forego  his  usual  Sunday 
holiday  out  of  town,  and  that  morning 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  145 

found  him,  while  the  bells  were  ringing  for 
church,  in  his  room  with  a  pile  of  manu 
script  and  proof  before  him.  For  these 
were  troublous  days  in  San  Francisco;  the 
great  Vigilance  Committee  of  '56  was  in 
session,  and  the  offices  of  the  daily  papers 
were  thronged  with  eager  seekers  of  news. 
Such  affairs,  indeed,  were  not  in  the  func 
tions  of  the  assistant  editor,  nor  exactly  to 
his  taste;  he  was  neither  a  partisan  of  the 
so-called  Law  and  Order  Party,  nor  yet  an 
enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  citizen  Revolu 
tionists  known  as  the  Vigilance  Committee, 
both  extremes  being  incompatible  with  his 
habits  of  thought.  Consequently  he  was 
not  displeased  at  this  opportunity  of  doing 
his  work  away  from  the  office  and  the 
"heady  talk"  of  controversy. 

He  worked  on  until  the  bells  ceased  and 
a  more  than  Sabbath  stillness  fell  upon  the 
streets.  So  quiet  was  it  that  once  or  twice 
the  conversation  of  passing  pedestrians 
floated  up  and  into  his  window,  as  of  voices 
at  his  elbow. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  child's 
voice  singing  in  subdued  tone,  as  if  fearful 
of  being  overheard.  This  time  he  laid  aside 
his  pen  —  it  certainly  was  no  delusion! 


146  UNDER   THE  EAVES 

The  sound  did  not  come  from  the  open  win 
dow,  but  from  some  space  on  a  level  with 
his  room.  Yet  there  was  no  contiguous 
building  as  high. 

He  rose  and  tried  to  open  his  door  softly, 
but  it  creaked,  and  the  singing  instantly 
ceased.  There  was  nothing  before  him  but 
the  bare,  empty  hall,  with  its  lathed  and 
plastered  partitions,  and  the  two  smaller 
rooms,  unfinished  like  his  own,  on  either 
side  of  him.  Their  doors  were  shut;  the 
one  at  his  right  hand  was  locked,  the  other 
yielded  to  his  touch. 

For  the  first  moment  he  saw  only  the 
bare  walls  of  the  apparently  empty  room. 
But  a  second  glance  showed  him  two  chil 
dren  —  a  boy  of  seven  and  a  girl  of  five  — 
sitting  on  the  floor,  which  was  further  lit 
tered  by  a  mattress,  pillow,  and  blanket. 
There  was  a  cheap  tray  on  one  of  the  trunks 
containing  two  soiled  plates  and  cups  and 
fragments  of  a  meal.  But  there  was  nei 
ther  a  chair  nor  table  nor  any  other  article 
of  furniture  in  the  room.  Yet  he  was  struck 
by  the  fact  that,  in  spite  of  this  poverty  of 
surrounding,  the  children  were  decently 
dressed,  and  the  few  scattered  pieces  of  lug 
gage  in  quality  bespoke  a  superior  condition. 


UNDER    THE  EAVES  147 

The  children  met  his  astonished  stare 
with  an  equal  wonder  and,  he  fancied,  some 
little  fright.  The  boy's  lips  trembled  a 
little  as  he  said  apologetically  — 

"I  told  Jinny  not  to  sing.  But  she  did 
n't  make  m.uch  noise." 

"Mamma  said  I  could  play  with  my 
dolly.  But  I  for  dot  and  singed,"  said  the 
little  girl  penitently. 

"Where's  your  mamma?"  asked  the 
young  man.  The  fancy  of  their  being  near 
relatives  of  the  night  watchman  had  van 
ished  at  the  sound  of  their  voices. 

"Dorn  out,"  said  the  girl. 

"When  did  she  go  out?" 

"Last  night." 

"Were  you  all  alone  here  last  night?" 

"Yes!" 

Perhaps  they  saw  the  look  of  indignation 
and  pity  in  the  editor's  face,  for  the  boy 
said  quickly  — 

"She  don't  go  out  every  night;  last  night 
she  went  to  "  — 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  both  children 
looked  at  each  other  with  a  half  laugh  and 
half  cry,  and  then  repeated  in  hopeless 
unison,  "She  's  dorn  out." 

"When  is  she  coming  back  again?" 


148  UNDER   THE   EAVES, 

"To-night.  But  we  won't  make  any 
more  noise." 

"Who  brings  you  your  food?  "  continued 
the  editor,  looking  at  the  tray. 

"Woberts." 

Evidently  Roberts,  the  night  watchman! 
The  editor  felt  relieved;  here  was  a  clue  to 
some  explanation.  He  instantly  sat  down 
on  the  floor  between  them. 

"So  that  was  the  dolly  that  slept  in  my 
bed,"  he  said  gayly,  taking  it  up. 

God  gives  helplessness  a  wonderful  intui 
tion  of  its  friends.  The  children  looked  up 
at  the  face  of  their  grown-up  companion, 
giggled,  and  then  burst  into  a  shrill  fit  of 
laughter.  He  felt  that  it  was  the  first  one 
they  had  really  indulged  in  for  many  days. 
Nevertheless  he  said,  "Hush!"  confiden 
tially  ;  why  he  scarcely  knew,  except  to  in 
timate  to  them  that  he  had  taken  in  their 
situation  thoroughly.  "Make  no  noise,"  he 
added  softly,  "and  come  into  my  big  room." 

They  hung  back,  however,  with  fright 
ened  yet  longing  eyes.  "Mamma  said  we 
mussent  do  out  of  this  room,"  said  the  girl. 

"Not  alone,"  responded  the  editor 
quickly,  "but  with  me,  you  know;  that's 
different." 


UNDER   THE  EAVES  149 

The  logic  sufficed  them,  poor  as  it  was. 
Their  hands  slid  quite  naturally  into  his. 
But  at  the  door  he  stopped,  and  motioning 
to  the  locked  door  of  the  other  room, 
asked :  — 

"And  is  that  mamma's  room,  too?" 

Their  little  hands  slipped  from  his  and 
they  were  silent.  Presently  the  boy,  as  if 
acted  upon  by  some  occult  influence  of  the 
girl,  said  in  a  half  whisper,  "Yes." 

The  editor  did  not  question  further,  but 
led  them  into  his  room.  Here  they  lost  the 
slight  restraint  they  had  shown,  and  began, 
child  fashion,  to  become  questioners  them 
selves. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  in  possession 
of  his  name,  his  business,  the  kind  of  res 
taurant  he  frequented,  where  he  went  when 
he  left  his  room  all  day,  the  meaning  of 
those  funny  slips  of  paper,  and  the  writ 
ten  manuscripts,  and  why  he  was  so  quiet. 
But  any  attempt  of  his  to  retaliate  by 
counter  questions  was  met  by  a  sudden  re 
serve  so  unchildlike  and  painful  to  him  — 
as  it  was  evidently  to  themselves  —  that  he 
desisted,  wisely  postponing  his  inquiries 
until  he  could  meet  Roberts. 

He  was  glad  when   they  fell  to  playing 


150  UNDER   THE  EAVES 

games  with  each  other  quite  naturally,  yet 
not  entirely  forgetting  his  propinquity,  as 
their  occasional  furtive  glances  at  his  move 
ments  showed  him.  He,  too,  became  pre 
sently  absorbed  in  his  work,  until  it  was 
finished  and  it  was  time  for  him  to  take  it 
to  the  office  of  the  "Informer."  The  wild 
idea  seized  him  of  also  taking  the  children 
afterwards  for  a  holiday  to  the  Mission 
Dolores,  but  he  prudently  remembered  that 
even  this  negligent  mother  of  theirs  might 
have  some  rights  over  her  offspring  that  he 
was  bound  to  respect. 

He  took  leave  of  them  gayly,  suggesting 
that  the  doll  be  replaced  in  his  bed  while 
he  was  away,  and  even  assisted  in  "tucking 
it  up."  But  during  the  afternoon  the  recol 
lection  of  these  lonely  playfellows  in  the 
deserted  house  obtruded  itself  upon  his  work 
and  the  talk  of  his  companions.  Sunday 
night  was  his  busiest  night,  and  he  could 
not,  therefore,  hope  to  get  away  in  time  to 
assure  himself  of  their  mother's  return. 

It  was  nearly  two  in  the  morning  when 
he  returned  to  his  room.  He  paused  for 
a  moment  on  the  threshold  to  listen  for  any 
sound  from  the  adjoining  room.  But  all 
was  hushed. 


UNDER   THE  EAVES  151 

His  intention  of  speaking  to  the  night 
watchman  was,  however,  anticipated  the 
next  morning  by  that  guardian  himself.  A 
tap  upon  his  door  while  he  was  dressing 
caused  him  to  open  it  somewhat  hurriedly 
in  the  hope  of  finding  one  of  the  children 
there,  but  he  met  only  the  embarrassed  face 
of  Roberts.  Inviting  him  into  the  room, 
the  editor  continued  dressing.  Carefully 
closing  the  door  behind  him,  the  man  be 
gan,  with  evident  hesitation,  — 

"I  oughter  hev  told  ye  suthin'  afore, 
Mr.  Breeze ;  but  I  kalkilated,  so  to  speak, 
that  you  wouldn't  be  bothered  one  way  or 
another,  and  so  ye  hadn't  any  call  to  know 
that  there  was  folks  here  "  — 

"Oh,  I  see,"  interrupted  Breeze  cheer 
fully;  "you  're  speaking  of  the  family  next 
door  —  the  landlord's  new  tenants." 

"They  ain't  exactly  that"  said  Roberts, 
still  with  embarrassment.  "  The  fact  is  — 
ye  see  —  the  thing  points  this  way:  they 
ain't  no  right  to  be  here,  and  it 's  as  much 
as  my  place  is  worth  if  it  leaks  out  that 
they  are." 

Mr.  Breeze  suspended  his  collar-button 
ing,  and  stared  at  Roberts. 

"You  see,  sir,  they  're  mighty  poor,  and 


152  UNDER   THE   EAVES 

they  've  nowhere  else  to  go  —  and  I  reck 
oned  to  take  'em  in  here  for  a  spell  and  say 
nothing  about  it." 

"But  the  landlord  would  n't  object, 
surely?  I'll  speak  to  him  myself,"  said 
Breeze  impulsively. 

"Oh,  no;  don't!  "  said  Roberts  in  alarm; 
"he  would  n't  like  it.  You  see,  Mr.  Breeze, 
it 's  just  this  way:  the  mother,  she  's  a  born 
lady,  and  did  my  old  woman  a  good  turn  in 
old  times  when  the  family  was  rich;  but 
now  she  's  obliged  —  just  to  support  her 
self,  you  know  —  to  take  up  with  what 
she  gets,  and  she  acts  in  the  bally  in  the 
theatre,  you  see,  and  hez  to  come  in  late 
o'  nights.  In  them  cheap  boarding-houses, 
you  know,  the  folks  looks  down  upon  her  for 
that,  and  won't  hev  her,  and  in  the  cheap 
hotels  the  men  are  —  you  know  —  a  darned 
sight  wuss,  and  that  's  how  I  took  her 
and  her  kids  in  here,  where  no  one  knows 
'em." 

"I  see,"  nodded  the  editor  sympatheti 
cally;  "and  very  good  it  was  of  you,  my 
man." 

Roberts  looked  still  more  confused,  and 
stammered  with  a  forced  laugh,  "And  — 
so  —  I  'in  just  keeping  her  on  here,  unbe- 


UNDER   THE   EAVES  153 

knownst,  until  her  husband  gets" —  He 
stopped  suddenly. 

"So  she  has  a  husband  living,  then?" 
said  Breeze  in  surprise. 

"In  the  mines,  yes  —  in  the  mines!  "  re 
peated  Roberts  with  a  monotonous  delibera 
tion  quite  distinct  from  his  previous  hesita 
tion,  "and  she's  only  waitin'  until  he  gets 
money  enough  —  to  —  to  take  her  away." 
He  stopped  and  breathed  hard. 

"But  couldn't  you  —  couldn't  we  —  get 
her  some  more  furniture?  There  's  nothing 
in  that  room,  you  know,  not  a  chair  or 
table;  and  unless  the  other  room  is  better 
furnished  "  — 

"Eh?  Oh,  yes!  "  said  Roberts  quickly, 
yet  still  with  a  certain  embarrassment;  "of 
course  that 's  better  furnished,  and  she 's 
quite  satisfied,  and  so  are  the  kids,  with 
anything.  And  now,  Mr.  Breeze,  I  reckon 
you  '11  say  nothin'  o'  this,  and  you  '11  never 
go  back  on  me?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Roberts,"  said  the  editor 
gravely,  "from  this  moment  I  am  not  only 
blind,  but  deaf  to  the  fact  that  anybody 
occupies  this  floor  but  myself." 

"  I  knew  you  was  white  all  through,  Mr. 
Breeze,"  said  the  night  watchman,  grasping 


154  UNDER   THE  EAVES 

the  young  man's  hand  with  a  grip  of  iron, 
"and  I  telled  my  wife  so.  I  sez,  '  Jest  you 
let  me  tell  him  everything'  but  she  "  —  He 
stopped  again  and  became  confused. 

"And  she  was  quite  right,  I  dare  say," 
said  Breeze,  with  a  laugh;  "and  I  do  not 
want  to  know  anything.  And  that  poor 
woman  must  never  know  that  I  ever  knew 
anything,  either.  But  you  may  tell  your 
wife  that  when  the  mother  is  away  she  can 
bring  the  little  ones  in  here  whenever  she 
likes." 

"Thank  ye  —  thank  ye,  sir!  —  and  I'll 
just  run  down  and  tell  the  old  woman  now, 
and  won't  intrude  upon  your  dressin'  any 
longer." 

He  grasped  Breeze's  hand  again,  went 
out  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  It 
might  have  been  the  editor's  fancy,  but  he 
thought  there  was  a  certain  interval  of 
silence  outside  the  door  before  the  night 
watchman's  heavy  tread  was  heard  along 
the  hall  again. 

For  several  evenings  after  this  Mr. 
Breeze  paid  some  attention  to  the  ballet  in 
his  usual  round  of  the  theatres.  Although 
he  had  never  seen  his  fair  neighbor,  he  had 
a  vague  idea  that  he  might  recognize  her 


UNDER   THE  EAVES  155 

through  some  likeness  to  her  children.  But 
in  vain.  In  the  opulent  charms  of  certain 
nymphs,  and  in  the  angular  austerities  of 
others,  he  failed  equally  to  discern  any  of 
those  refinements  which  might  have  distin 
guished  the  "born  lady  "  of  Roberts 's  story, 
or  which  he  himself  had  seen  in  her  chil 
dren. 

These  he  did  not  meet  again  during  the 
week,  as  his  duties  kept  him  late  at  the 
office;  but  from  certain  signs  in  his  room 
he  knew  that  Mrs.  Eoberts  had  availed 
herself  of  his  invitation  to  bring  them  in 
with  her,  and  he  regularly  found  "Jinny's" 
doll  tucked  up  in  his  bed  at  night,  and  he 
as  regularly  disposed  of  it  outside  his  door 
in  the  morning,  with  a  few  sweets,  like  an 
offering,  tucked  under  its  rigid  arms. 

But  another  circumstance  touched  him 
more  delicately;  his  room  was  arranged 
with  greater  care  than  before,  and  with  an 
occasional  exhibition  of  taste  that  certainly 
had  not  distinguished  Mrs.  Roberts 's  pre 
vious  ministrations.  One  evening  on  his 
return  he  found  a  small  bouquet  of  inex 
pensive  flowers  in  a  glass  on  his  writing- 
table.  He  loved  flowers  too  well  not  to 
detect  that  they  were  quite  fresh,  and  could 


156  UNDER   THE  EAVES 

have  been  put  there  only  an  hour  or  two 
before  he  arrived. 

The  next  evening  was  Saturday,  and,  as 
he  usually  left  the  office  earlier  on  that  day, 
it  occurred  to  him,  as  he  walked  home,  that 
it  was  about  the  time  his  fair  neighbor 
would  be  leaving  the  theatre,  and  that  it 
was  possible  he  might  meet  her. 

At  the  front  door,  however,  he  found 
Eoberts,  who  returned  his  greeting  with  a 
certain  awkwardness  which  struck  him  as 
singular.  When  he  reached  the  niche  on 
the  landing  -he  found  his  candle  was  gone, 
but  he  proceeded  on,  groping  his  way  up 
the  stairs,  with  an  odd  conviction  that  both 
these  incidents  pointed  to  the  fact  that  the 
woman  had  just  returned  or  was  expected. 

He  had  also  a  strange  feeling  —  which 
may  have  been  owing  to  the  darkness  — 
that  some  one  was  hidden  on  the  landing 
or  on  the  stairs  where  he  would  pass.  This 
was  further  accented  by  a  faint  odor  of 
patchouli,  as,  with  his  hand  on  the  rail,  he 
turned  the  corner  of  the  third  landing,  and 
he  was  convinced  that  if  he  had  put  out  his 
other  hand  it  would  have  come  in  contact 
with  his  mysterious  neighbor.  But  -a  cer 
tain  instinct  of  respect  for  her  secret,  which 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  157 

she  was  even  now  guarding  in  the  darkness, 
withheld  him,  and  he  passed  on  quickly  to 
his  own  floor. 

Here  it  was  lighter;  the  moon  shot  a 
beam  of  silver  across  the  passage  from  an 
unshuttered  window  as  he  passed.  He 
reached  his  room  door,  entered,  but  instead 
of  lighting  the  gas  and  shutting  the  door, 
stood  with  it  half  open,  listening  in  the 
darkness. 

His  suspicions  were  verified;  there  was 
a  slight  rustling  noise,  and  a  figure  which 
had  evidently  followed  him  appeared  at  the 
end  of  the  passage.  It  was  that  of  a  woman 
habited  in  a  grayish  dress  and  cloak  of  the 
same  color;  but  as  she  passed  across  the 
band  of  moonlight  he  had  a  distinct  view  of 
her  anxious,  worried  face.  It  was  a  face 
no  longer  young ;  it  was  worn  with  illness, 
but  still  replete  with  a  delicacy  and  faded 
beauty  so  inconsistent  with  her  avowed  pro 
fession  that  he  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  pain 
and  doubt.  The  next  moment  she  had 
vanished  in  her  room,  leaving  the  same 
faint  perfume  behind  her.  He  closed  his 
door  softly,  lit  the  gas,  and  sat  down  in  a 
state  of  perplexity.  That  swift  glimpse  of 
her  face  and  figure  had  made  her  story 


158  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

improbable  to  the  point  of  absurdity,  or 
possibly  to  the  extreme  of  pathos ! 

It  seemed  incredible  that  a  woman  of  that 
quality  should  be  forced  to  accept  a  voca 
tion  at  once  so  low,  so  distasteful,  and  so 
unremunerative.  With  her  evident  ante 
cedents,  had  she  no  friends  but  this  com 
mon  Western  night  watchman  of  a  bank? 
Had  Roberts  deceived  him?  Was  his  whole 
story  a  fabrication,  and  was  there  some 
complicity  between  the  two?  What  was 
it?  He  knit  his  brows. 

Mr.  Breeze  had  that  overpowering  know 
ledge  of  the  world  which  only  comes  with 
the  experience  of  twenty-five,  and  to  this 
he  superadded  the  active  imagination  of  a 
newspaper  man.  A  plot  to  rob  the  bank? 
These  mysterious  absences,  that  luggage 
which  he  doubted  not  was  empty  and  in 
tended  for  spoil !  But  why  encumber  her 
self  with  the  two  children?  Here  his  com 
mon  sense  and  instinct  of  the  ludicrous 
returned  and  he  smiled. 

But  he  could  not  believe  in  the  ballet 
dancer!  He  wondered,  indeed,  how  any 
manager  could  have  accepted  the  grim  satire 
of  that  pale,  worried  face  among  the  fairies, 
that  sad  refinement  amid  their  vacant  smiles 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  159 

and  rouged  cheeks.  And  then,  growing  sad 
again,  he  comforted  himself  with  the  reflec 
tion  that  at  least  the  children  were  not 
alone  that  night,  and  so  went  to  sleep. 

For  some  days  he  had  no  further  meeting 
with  his  neighbors.  The  disturbed  state 
of  the  city  —  for  the  Vigilance  Committee 
were  still  in  session  —  obliged  the  daily 
press  to  issue  "extras,"  and  his  work  at  the 
office  increased. 

It  was  not  until  Sunday  again  that  he 
was  able  to  be  at  home.  Needless  to  say 
that  his  solitary  little  companions  were  duly 
installed  there,  while  he  sat  at  work  with 
his  proofs  on  the  table  before  him. 

The  stillness  of  the  empty  house  was  only 
broken  by  the  habitually  subdued  voices  of 
the  children  at  their  play,  when  suddenly 
the  harsh  stroke  of  a  distant  bell  came 
through  the  open  window.  But  it  was  no 
Sabbath  bell,  and  Mr.  Breeze  knew  it.  It 
was  the  tocsin  of  the  Vigilance  Committee, 
summoning  the  members  to  assemble  at 
their  quarters  for  a  capture,  a  trial,  or  an 
execution  of  some  wrongdoer.  To  him  it 
was  equally  a  summons  to  the  office  —  to 
distasteful  news  and  excitement. 

He  threw  his  proofs  aside  in  disgust,  laid 


160  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

down  his  pen,  seized  his  hat,  and  paused 
a  moment  to  look  round  for  his  playmates. 
But  they  were  gone!  He  went  into  the 
hall,  looked  into  the  open  door  of  their 
room,  but  they  were  not  there.  He  tried 
the  door  of  the  second  room,  but  it  was 
locked. 

Satisfied  that  they  had  stolen  downstairs 
in  their  eagerness  to  know  what  the  bell 
meant,  he  hurried  down  also,  met  Eoberts 
in  the  passage,  —  a  singularly  unusual  cir 
cumstance  at  that  hour,  —  called  to  him  to 
look  after  the  runaways,  and  hurried  to  his 
office. 

Here  he  found  the  staff  collected,  ex 
citedly  discussing  the  news.  One  of  the 
Vigilance  Committee  prisoners,  a  notorious 
bully  and  ruffian,  detained  as  a  criminal 
and  a  witness,  had  committed  suicide  in  his 
cell.  Fortunately  this  was  all  reportorial 
work,  and  the  services  of  Mr.  Breeze  were 
not  required.  He  hurried  back,  relieved, 
to  his  room. 

When  he  reached  his  landing,  breath 
lessly,  he  heard  the  same  quick  rustle  he 
had  heard  that  memorable  evening,  and 
was  quite  satisfied  that  he  saw  a  figure  glide 
swiftly  out  of  the  open  door  of  his  room. 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  161 

It  was  no  doubt  his  neighbor,  who  had  been 
seeking  her  children,  and  as  he  heard  their 
voices  as  he  passed,  his  uneasiness  and  sus 
picions  were  removed. 

He  sat  down  again  to  his  scattered  papers 
and  proofs,  finished  his  work,  and  took  it 
to  the  office  on  his  way  to  dinner.  He  re 
turned  early,  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
meet  his  neighbor  again,  and  had  quite 
settled  his  mind  that  he  was  justified  in 
offering  a  civil  "Good-evening"  to  her,  in 
spite  of  his  previous  respectful  ignoring  of 
her  presence.  She  must  certainly  have 
become  aware  by  this  time  of  his  attention 
to  her  children  and  consideration  for  her 
self,  and  could  not  mistake  his  motives. 
But  he  was  disappointed,  although  he  came 
up  softly;  he  found  the  floor  in  darkness 
and  silence  on  his  return,  and  he  had  to  be 
content  with  lighting  his  gas  and  settling 
down  to  work  again. 

A  near  church  clock  had  struck  ten  when 
he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  an  unfamil 
iar  and  uncertain  step  in  the  hall,  followed 
by  a  tap  at  his  door.  Breeze  jumped  to  his 
feet,  and  was  astonished  to  find  Dick,  the 
"printer's  devil,"  standing  on  the  threshold 
with  a  roll  of  proofs  in  his  hand. 


162  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

"How  did  you  get  here?  "  he  asked  tes 
tily. 

"They  told  me  at  the  restaurant  they 
reckoned  you  lived  yere,  and  the  night 
watchman  at  the  door  headed  me  straight 
up.  When  he  knew  whar  I  kem  from  he 
wanted  to  know  what  the  news  was,  but  I 
told  him  he  'd  better  buy  an  extra  and 
see." 

"Well,  what  did  you  come  for?"  said 
the  editor  impatiently. 

"The  foreman  said  it  was  important,  and 
he  wanted  to  know  afore  he  went  to  press 
ef  this  yer  correction  was  yours  ?  " 

He  went  to  the  table,  unrolled  the  proofs, 
and,  taking  out  the  slip,  pointed  to  a 
marked  paragraph.  "The  foreman  says 
the  reporter  who  brought  the  news  allows 
he  got  it  straight  first-hand !  But  ef  you  've 
corrected  it,  he  reckons  you  know  best." 

Breeze  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  para 
graph  alluded  to  was  not  of  his  own  writ 
ing,  but  one  of  several  news  items  furnished 
by  reporters.  These  had  been  "set  up" 
in  the  same  "galley,"  and  consequently 
appeared  in  the  same  proof -slip.  He  was 
about  to  say  curtly  that  neither  the  matter 
nor  the  correction  was  his,  when  something 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  163 

odd  in  the  correction  of  the  item  struck 
him.  It  read  as  follows :  — 

"It  appears  that  the  notorious  '  Jim 
Bodine, '  who  is  in  hiding  and  badly  wanted 
by  the  Vigilance  Committee,  has  been 
tempted  lately  into  a  renewal  of  his  old 
recklessness.  He  was  seen  in  Sacramento 
Street  the  other  night  by  two  separate  wit 
nesses,  one  of  whom  followed  him,  but  he 
escaped  in  some  friendly  doorway." 

The  words  "in  Sacramento  Street"  were 
stricken  out  and  replaced  by  the  correction 
"on  the  Saucelito  shore,"  and  the  words 
"friendly  doorway  "  were  changed  to 
"friendly  dinghy."  The  correction  was  not 
his,  nor  the  handwriting,  which  was  further 
disguised  by  being  an  imitation  of  print. 
A  strange  idea  seized  him. 

"Has  any  one  seen  these  proofs  since  I 
left  them  at  the  office?" 

"No,  only  the  foreman,  sir."  • 

He  remembered  that  he  had  left  the 
proofs  lying  openly  on  his  table  when  he 
was  called  to  the  office  at  the  stroke  of  the 
alarm  bell;  he  remembered  the  figure  he 
saw  gliding  from  his  room  on  his  return. 
She  had  been  there  alone  with  the  proofs ; 
she  only  could  have  tampered  with  them. 


164  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

The  evident  object  of  the  correction  was 
to  direct  the  public  attention  from  Sacra 
mento  Street  to  Saucelito,  as  the  probable 
whereabouts  of  this  "Jimmy  Bodine."  The 
street  below  was  Sacramento  Street,  the 
"friendly  doorway"  might  have  been  their 
own. 

That  she  had  some  knowledge  of  this 
Bodine  was  not  more  improbable  than  the 
ballet  story.  Her  strange  absences,  the 
mystery  surrounding  her,  all  seemed  to 
testify  that  she  had  some  connection  —  per 
haps  only  an  innocent  one  —  with  these  de 
sperate  people  whom  the  Vigilance  Commit 
tee  were  hunting  down.  Her  attempt  to 
save  the  man  was,  after  all,  no  more  illegal 
than  their  attempt  to  capture  him.  True, 
she  might  have  trusted  him,  Breeze,  with 
out  this  tampering  with  his  papers;  yet 
perhaps  she  thought  he  was  certain  to  dis 
cover  it  —  and  it  was  only  a  silent  appeal 
to  his  mercy.  The  corrections  were  ingen 
ious  and  natural  —  it  was  the  act  of  an  in 
telligent,  quick-witted  woman. 

Mr.  Breeze  was  prompt  in  acting  upon 
his  intuition,  whether  right  or  wrong.  He 
took  up  his  pen,  wrote  on  the  margin  of 
the  proof,  "Print  as  corrected,"  said  to  the 


UNDER   THE  EAVES  165 

boy  carelessly,  "The  corrections  are  all 
right,"  and  dismissed  him  quickly. 

The  corrected  paragraph  which  appeared 
in  the  "Informer  "  the  next  morning  seemed 
to  attract  little  public  attention,  the  greater 
excitement  being  the  suicide  of  the  impris 
oned  bully  and  the  effect  it  might  have 
upon  the  prosecution  of  other  suspected 
parties,  against  whom  the  dead  man  had 
been  expected  to  bear  witness. 

Mr.  Breeze  was  unable  to  obtain  any  in 
formation  regarding  the  desperado  Bodine's 
associates  and  relations;  his  correction  of 
the  paragraph  had  made  the  other  members 
of  the  staff  believe  he  had  secret  and  supe 
rior  information  regarding  the  fugitive,  and 
he  thus  was  estopped  from  asking  questions. 
But  he  felt  himself  justified  now  in  demand 
ing  fuller  information  from  Roberts  at  the 
earliest  opportunity. 

For  this  purpose  he  came  home  earlier 
that  night,  hoping  to  find  the  night  watch 
man  still  on  his  first  beat  in  the  lower  halls. 
But  he  was  disappointed.  He  was  amazed, 
however,  on  reaching  his  own  landing,  to 
find  the  passage  piled  with  new  luggage, 
some  of  that  ruder  type  of  rolled  blanket 
and  knapsack  known  as  a  "miner's  kit." 


166  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

He  was  still  more  surprised  to  hear  men's 
voices  and  the  sound  of  laughter  proceeding 
from  the  room  that  was  always  locked.  A 
sudden  sense  of  uneasiness  and  disgust,  he 
knew  not  why,  came  over  him. 

He  passed  quickly  into  his  room,  shut 
the  door  sharply,  and  lit  the  gas.  But  he 
presently  heard  the  door  of  the  locked  room 
open,  a  man's  voice,  slightly  elevated  by 
liquor  and  opposition,  saying,  "I  know 
what 's  due  from  one  gen'leman  to  'nother  " 
—  a  querulous,  objecting  voice  saying, 
"Hole  on!  not  now,"  and  a  fainter  femi 
nine  protest,  all  of  which  were  followed  by 
a  rap  on  his  door. 

Breeze  opened  it  to  two  strangers,  one 
of  whom  lurched  forward  unsteadily  with 
outstretched  hand.  He  had  a  handsome 
face  and  figure,  and  a  certain  consciousness 
of  it  even  in  the  abandon  of  liquor;  he  had 
an  aggressive  treacherousness  of  eye  which 
his  potations  had  not  subdued.  He  grasped 
Breeze's  hand  tightly,  but  dropped  it  the 
next  moment  perfunctorily  as  he  glanced 
round  the  room. 

"I  told  them  I  was  bound  to  come  in," 
he  said,  without  looking  at  Breeze,  "and 
say  '  Howdy !  '  to  the  man  that 's  bin  a  pal 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  167 

to  my  women  folks  and  the  kids  —  and 
acted  white  all  through !  I  said  to  Mame, 
4 1  reckon  he  knows  who  /  am,"  and  that  I 
kin  be  high-toned  to  them  that  's  high- 
toned;  kin  return  shake  for  shake  and  shot 
for  shot!'  Aye!  that's  me!  So  I  was 
bound  to  come  in  like  a  gen'leman,  sir,  and 
here  I  am !  " 

He  threw  himself  in  an  unproft'ered  chair 
and  stared  at  Breeze. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Breeze  dryly,  "that, 
nevertheless,  I  never  knew  who  you  were, 
and  that  even  now  I  am  ignorant  whom  I 
am  addressing." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  the  second  man, 
with  a  querulous  protest,  which  did  not, 
however,  conceal  his  admiring  vassalage  to 
his  friend;  "that 's  what  I'm  allus  telling 
Jim.  '  Jim,'  I  says,  '  how  is  folks  to  know 
you  're  the  man  that  shot  Kernel  Baxter, 
and  dropped  three  o'  them  Mariposa  Vigi- 
lants?  They  didn't  see  you  do  it!  They 
just  look  at  your  fancy  style  and  them  mus 
taches  of  yours,  and  allow  ye  might  be 
death  on  the  girls,  but  they  don't  know  ye! 
An'  this  man  yere  —  he  's  a  scribe  in  them 
papers  —  writes  what  the  boss  editor  tells 
him,  and  lives  up  yere  on  the  roof,  'long- 


168  UNDER   THE   EAVES 

side  yer  wife  and  the  children  —  what 's  he 
knowin'  about  you  ?  '  Jim  's  all  right 
enough,"  he  continued,  in  easy  confidence 
to  Breeze,  "but  he's  too  fresh  'bout  him 
self." 

Mr.  James  Bodine  accepted  this  tribute 
and  criticism  of  his  henchman  with  a  com 
placent  laugh,  which  was  not,  however, 
without  a  certain  contempt  for  the  speaker 
and  the  man  spoken  to.  His  bold,  selfish 
eyes  wandered  round  the  room  as  if  in 
search  of  some  other  amusement  than  his 
companions  offered. 

"I  reckon  this  is  the  room  which  that 
hound  of  a  landlord,  Kakes,  allowed  he  'd 
fix  up  for  our  poker  club  —  the  club  that 
Dan  Simmons  and  me  got  up,  with  a  few 
other  sports.  It  was  to  be  a  slap-up  affair, 
right  under  the  roof,  where  there  was  no 
chance  of  the  police  raiding  us.  But  the 
cur  weakened  when  the  Vigilants  started 
out  to  make  war  on  any  game  a  gen'leman 
might  hev  that  was  n't  in  their  gummy-bag, 
salt  pork  trade.  Well,  it 's  gettin'  a  long 
time  between  drinks,  gen'lemen,  ain't  it?" 
He  looked  round  him  significantly. 

Only  the  thought  of  the  woman  and  her 
children  in  the  next  room,  and  the  shame 


UNDER   THE   EAVES  169 

that  he  believed  she  was  enduring,  enabled 
Breeze  to  keep  his  temper  or  even  a  show 
of  civility. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said  quietly,  "that 
you  '11  find  very  little  here  to  remind  you 
of  the  club  —  not  even  the  whiskey ;  for  I 
use  the  room  only  as  a  bedroom,  and  as  I 
am  a  workingman,  and  come  in  late  and 
go  out  early,  I  have  never  found  it  avail 
able  for  hospitality,  even  to  my  intimate 
friends.  I  am  very  glad,  however,  that 
the  little  leisure  I  have  had  in  it  has  enabled 
me  to  make  the  floor  less  lonely  for  your 
children." 

Mr.  Bodine  got  up  with  an  affected  yawn, 
turned  an  embarrassed  yet  darkening  eye 
on  Breeze,  and  lunged  unsteadily  to  the 
door.  "And  as  I  only  happened  in  to  do 
the  reg'lar  thing  between  high-toned  gen'le- 
men,  I  reckon  we  kin  say  '  Quits. ' '  He 
gave  a  coarse  laugh,  said  "So  long,"  nod 
ded,  stumbled  into  the  passage,  and  thence 
into  the  other  room. 

His  companion  watched  him  pass  out 
with  a  relieved  yet  protecting  air,  and  then, 
closing  the  door  softly,  drew  nearer  to 
Breeze,  and  said  in  husky  confidence,  — 

"Ye  ain't  seem'  him  at  his  best,  mister! 


170  UNDER    THE  EAVES 

He  's  bin  drinkin'  too  much,  and  this  yer 
news  has  upset  him." 

"What  news?"  asked  Breeze. 

"This  yer  suicide  o'  Irish  Jack! " 

"Was  he  his  friend?" 

"Friend?"  ejaculated  the  man,  horrified 
at  the  mere  suggestion.  "Not  much! 
Why,  Irish  Jack  was  the  only  man  that 
could  hev  hung  Jim !  Now  he  's  dead,  in 
course  the  Vigilants  ain't  got  no  proof  agin 
Jim.  Jim  wants  to  face  it  out  now  an' 
stay  here,  but  his  wife  and  me  don't  see  it 
noways!  So  we  are  taking  advantage  o' 
the  lull  agin  him  to  get  him  off  Mown  the 
coast  this  very  night.  That 's  why  he 's 
been  off  his  head  drinkin'.  Ye  see,  when 
a  man  has  been  for  weeks  hidin'  —  part  o' 
the  time  in  that  room  and  part  o'  the  time 
on  the  wharf,  where  them  Vigilants  has 
been  watchin'  every  ship  that  left  in  order 
to  ketch  him,  he  's  inclined  to  celebrate  his 
chance  o'  getting  away  "  — 

"Part  of  the  time  in  that  room?"  inter 
rupted  Breeze  quickly. 

"Sartin!  Don't  ye  see?  He  allus  kern 
in  as  you  went  out  —  sabe  !  —  and  got  away 
before  you  kern  back,  his  wife  all  the  time 
just  a-hoverin'  between  the  two  places,  and 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  171 

keeping  watch  for  him.  It  was  killin'  to 
her,  you  see,  for  she  was  n't  brought  up  to 
it,  whiles  Jim  did  n't  keer  — had  two  revolv 
ers  and  kalkilated  to  kill  a  dozen  Vigilants 
afore  he  dropped.  But  that 's  over  now, 
and  when  I  've  got  him  safe  on  that 
4  plunger  '  down  at  the  wharf  to-night,  and 
put  him  aboard  the  schooner  that 's  lying 
off  the  Heads,  he  's  all  right  agin." 

"And  Roberts  knew  all  this  and  was  one 
of  his  friends?  "  asked  Breeze. 

"Roberts  knew  it,  and  Roberts's  wife 
used  to  be  a  kind  of  servant  to  Jim's  wife 
in  the  South,  when  she  was  a  girl,  but  I 
don't  know  ez  Roberts  is  his  friend!  " 

"He  certainly  has  shown  himself  one," 
said  Breeze. 

"Ye-e-s,"  said  the  stranger  meditatively, 
"ye-e-s."  He  stopped,  opened  the  door 
softly,  and  peeped  out,  and  then  closed  it 
again  softly.  "It's  sing'lar,  Mr.  Breeze," 
he  went  on  in  a  sudden  yet  embarrassed 
burst  of  confidence,  "that  Jim  thar  —  a 
man  thet  can  shoot  straight,  and  hez  fre 
quent;  a  man  thet  knows  every  skin  game 
goin' — that  thet  man  Jim,"  very  slowly, 
"  hez  n't  really  —  got  —  any  friends  —  'cept 
me  —  and  his  wife." 


172  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

"Indeed?"  said  Mr.  Breeze  dryly. 

"Sure!  Why,  you  yourself  didn't  cot 
ton  to  him  —  I  could  see  thet." 

Mr.  Breeze  felt  himself  redden  slightly, 
and  looked  curiously  at  the  man.  This 
vulgar  parasite,  whom  he  had  set  down  as 
a  worshiper  of  sham  heroes,  undoubtedly 
did  not  look  like  an  associate  of  Bodine's, 
and  had  a  certain  seriousness  that  demanded 
respect.  As  he  looked  closer  into  his  wide, 
round  face,  seamed  with  small-pox,  he  fan 
cied  he  saw  even  in  its  fatuous  imbecility 
something  of  that  haunting  devotion  he  had 
seen  on  the  refined  features  of  the  wife. 
He  said  more  gently,  — 

"But  one  friend  like  you  would  seem  to 
be  enough." 

"I  ain't  what  I  uster  be,  Mr.  Breeze," 
said  the  man  meditatively,  "and  mebbe  ye 
don't  know  who  I  am.  I  'm  Abe  Shuck- 
ster,  of  Shuckster's  Kanch  —  one  of  the 
biggest  in  Petalumy.  I  was  a  rich  man 
until  a  year  ago,  when  Jim  got  inter  trou 
ble.  What  with  mortgages  and  interest, 
pay  in'  up  Jim's  friends  and  buying  off  some 
ez  was  set  agin  him,  thar  ain't  much  left, 
and  when  I  've  settled  that  bill  for  the 
schooner  lying  off  the  Heads  there  I  reckon 


UNDER   THE  EAVES  173 

I  'm  about  played  out.  But  I  've  allus  a 
shanty  at  Petalumy,  and  mebbe  when  things 
is  froze  over  and  Jim  gets  back  —  you  '11 
come  and  see  him  —  for  you  ain't  seen  him 
at  his  best." 

"I  suppose  his  wife  and  children  go  with 
him?"  said  Breeze. 

"No!  He's  agin  it,  and  wants  them  to 
come  later.  But  that 's  all  right,  for  you 
see  she  kin  go  back  to  their  own  house  at  the 
Mission,  now  that  the  Vigilants  are  givin' 
up  shadderin'  it.  So  long,  Mr.  Breeze! 
We  're  startin'  afore  daylight.  Sorry  you 
didn't  see  Jim  in  condition." 

He  grasped  Breeze's  hand  warmly  and 
slipped  out  of  the  door  softly.  For  an  in 
stant  Mr.  Breeze  felt  inclined  to  follow  him 
into  the  room  and  make  a  kinder  adieu  to 
the  pair,  but  the  reflection  that  he  might 
embarrass  the  wife,  who,  it  would  seem, 
had  purposely  avoided  accompanying  her 
husband  when  he  entered,  withheld  him. 
And  for  the  last  few  minutes  he  had  been 
doubtful  if  he  had  any  right  to  pose  as  her 
friend.  Beside  the  devotion  of  the  man 
who  had  just  left  him,  his  own  scant  kind 
ness  to  her  children  seemed  ridiculous. 

He  went  to  bed,  but  tossed  uneasily  until 


174  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

he  fancied  he  heard  stealthy  footsteps  out 
side  his  door  and  in  the  passage.  Even 
then  he  thought  of  getting  up,  dressing, 
and  going  out  to  bid  farewell  to  the  fugi 
tives.  But  even  while  he  was  thinking  of 
it  he  fell  asleep  and  did  not  wake  until  the 
sun  was  shining  in  at  his  windows. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  threw  on  his  dress 
ing-gown,  and  peered  into  the  passage. 
Everything  was  silent.  He  stepped  outside 
—  the  light  streamed  into  the  hall  from  the 
open  doors  and  windows  of  both  rooms  — 
the  floor  was  empty;  not  a  trace  of  the 
former  occupants  remained.  He  was  turn 
ing  back  when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  battered 
wooden  doll  set  upright  against  his  door- 
jamb,  holding  stiffly  in  its  jointed  arms  a 
bit  of  paper  folded  like  a  note.  Opening 
it,  he  found  a  few  lines  written  in  pencil. 

God  bless  you  for  your  kindness  to  us, 
and  try  to  forgive  me  for  touching  your 
papers.  But  I  thought  that  you  would  de 
tect  it,  know  why  I  did  it,  and  then  help 
us,  as  you  did !  Good-by ! 

MAMIE  BODINE. 

Mr.  Breeze  laid  down  the  paper  with  a 


UNDER    THE   EAVES  175 

slight  accession  of  color,  as  if  its  purport 
had  been  ironical.  How  little  had  he  done 
compared  to  the  devotion  of  this  delicate 
woman  or  the  sacrifices  of  that  rough 
friend!  How  deserted  looked  this  nest 
under  the  eaves,  which  had  so  long  borne 
its  burden  of  guilt,  innocence,  shame,  and 
suffering!  For  many  days  afterwards  he 
avoided  it  except  at  night,  and  even  then 
he  often  found  himself  lying  awake  to  listen 
to  the  lost  voices  of  the  children. 

But  one  evening,  a  fortnight  later,  he 
came  upon  Roberts  in  the  hall.  "Well," 
said  Breeze,  with  abrupt  directness,  "did 
he  get  away?  " 

Roberts  started,  uttered  an  oath  which 
it  is  possible  the  Recording  Angel  passed 
to  his  credit,  and  said,  "Yes,  he  got  away 
all  right!" 

"  Why,  has  n't  his  wife  joined  him?  " 

"No.  Never,  in  this  world,  I  reckon; 
and  if  anywhere  in  the  next,  I  don't  want 
to  go  there !  "  said  Roberts  furiously. 

"Is  he  dead?" 

" Dead  ?     That  kind  don't  die !  " 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

Roberts 's  lips  writhed,  and  then,  with 
a  strong  effort,  he  said  with  deliberate  dis- 


176  UNDER    THE   EAVES 

tinctness,  "  I  mean  —  that  the  hound  went 
off  with  another  woman  —  that  —  was  —  in 
—  that  schooner,  and  left  that  fool  Shuck  - 
ster  adrift  in  the  plunger." 

"And  the  wife  and  children?  " 
"Shuckster  sold  his  shanty  at  Petaluma 
to  pay  their  passage  to  the  States.     Good 
night!" 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN   "SAW 
LIFE"  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

THE  junior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Spar- 
low  &  Kane,  "Druggists  and  Apotheca 
ries,  of  San  Francisco,  was  gazing  medi 
tatively  out  of  the  corner  of  the  window  of 
their  little  shop  in  Dupont  Street.  He 
could  see  the  dimly  lit  perspective  of  the 
narrow  thoroughfare  fade  off  into  the  level 
sand  wastes  of  Market  Street  on  the  one 
side,  and  plunge  into  the  half-excavated 
bulk  of  Telegraph  Hill  on  the  other.  He 
could  see  the  glow  and  hear  the  rumble  of 
Montgomery  Street  —  the  great  central 
avenue  farther  down  the  hill.  Above  the 
housetops  was  spread  the  warm  blanket  of 
sea-fog  under  which  the  city  was  regularly 
laid  to  sleep  every  summer  night  to  the  cool 
lullaby  of  the  Northwest  Trades.  It  was 
already  half -past  eleven;  footsteps  on  the 
wooden  pavement  were  getting  rarer  and 
more  remote;  the  last  cart  had  rumbled  by; 
the  shutters  were  up  along  the  street;  the 
glare  of  his  own  red  and  blue  jars  was  the 


178      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

only  beacon  left  to  guide  the  wayfarers. 
Ordinarily  he  would  have  been  going  home 
at  this  hour,  when  his  partner,  who  occu 
pied  the  surgery  and  a  small  bedroom  at 
the  rear  of  the  shop,  always  returned  to 
relieve  him.  That  night,  however,  a  pro 
fessional  visit  would  detain  the  "Doctor" 
until  half -past  twelve.  There  was  still  an 
hour  to  wait.  He  felt  drowsy;  the  myste 
rious  incense  of  the  shop,  that  combined 
essence  of  drugs,  spice,  scented  soap,  and 
orris  root  —  which  always  reminded  him  of 
the  Arabian  Nights  —  was  affecting  him. 
He  yawned,  and  then,  turning  away,  passed 
behind  the  counter,  took  down  a  jar  labeled 
"Glycyrr.  Glabra,"  selected  a  piece  of 
Spanish  licorice,  and  meditatively  sucked  it. 
Not  receiving  from  it  that  diversion  and 
sustenance  he  apparently  was  seeking,  he 
also  visited,  in  an  equally  familiar  manner, 
a  jar  marked  "Jujubes,"  and  returned  ru- 
minatingly  to  his  previous  position. 

If  I  have  not  in  this  incident  sufficiently 
established  the  youthfulness  of  the  junior 
partner,  I  may  add  briefly  that  he  was  just 
nineteen,  that  he  had  early  joined  the  emi 
gration  to  California,  and  after  one  or  two 
previous  light-hearted  essays  at  other  occu- 


REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      179 

pations,  for  which  he  was  singularly  unfit 
ted,  he  had  saved  enough  to  embark  on  his 
present  venture,  still  less  suited  to  his  tem 
perament.  In  those  adventurous  days  trades 
and  vocations  were  not  always  filled  by 
trained  workmen;  it  was  extremely  prob 
able  that  the  experienced  chemist  was  al 
ready  making  his  success  as  a  gold-miner, 
with  a  lawyer  and  a  physician  for  his  part 
ners,  and  Mr.  Kane's  inexperienced  posi 
tion  was  by  no  means  a  novel  one.  A 
slight  knowledge  of  Latin  as  a  written  lan 
guage,  an  American  schoolboy's  acquaint 
ance  with  chemistry  and  natural  philosophy, 
were  deemed  sufficient  by  his  partner,  a 
regular  physician,  for  practical  cooperation 
in  the  vending  of  drugs  and  putting  up  of 
prescriptions.  He  knew  the  difference  be 
tween  acids  and  alkalies  and  the  peculiar 
results  which  attended  their  incautious  com 
bination.  But  he  was  excessively  deliber 
ate,  painstaking,  and  cautious.  The  legend 
which  adorned  the  desk  at  the  counter, 
"Physicians'  prescriptions  carefully  pre 
pared,"  was  more  than  usually  true  as  re 
garded  the  adverb.  There  was  no  danger 
of  his  poisoning  anybody  through  haste  or 
carelessness,  but  it  was  possible  that  an 


180      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

urgent  "case"  might  have  succumbed  to 
the  disease  while  he  was  putting  up  the 
remedy.  Nor  was  his  caution  entirely  pas 
sive.  In  those  days  the  "  heroic  "  practice 
of  medicine  was  in  keeping  with  the  abnor 
mal  development  of  the  country;  there  were 
"record"  doses  of  calomel  and  quinine,  and 
he  had  once  or  twice  incurred  the  fury  of 
local  practitioners  by  sending  back  their 
prescriptions  with  a  modest  query. 

The  far-off  clatter  of  carriage  wheels 
presently  arrested  his  attention;  looking 
down  the  street,  he  could  see  the  lights  of 
a  hackney  carriage  advancing  towards  him. 
They  had  already  flashed  upon  the  open 
crossing  a  block  beyond  before  his  vague 
curiosity  changed  into  an  active  instinctive 
presentiment  that  they  were  coming  to  the 
shop.  He  withdrew  to  a  more  becoming 
and  dignified  position  behind  the  counter 
as  the  carriage  drew  up  with  a  jerk  before 
the  door. 

The  driver  rolled  from  his  box  and  opened 
the  carriage  door  to  a  woman  whom  he  as 
sisted,  between  some  hysterical  exclamations 
on  her  part  and  some  equally  incoherent 
explanations  of  his  own,  into  the  shop. 
Kane  saw  at  a  glance  that  both  were  under 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      181 

the  influence  of  liquor,  and  one,  the  woman, 
was  disheveled  and  bleeding  about  the 
head.  Yet  she  was  elegantly  dressed  and 
evidently  en  fete,  with  one  or  two  "tri 
color  "  knots  and  ribbons  mingled  with  her 
finery.  Her  golden  hair,  matted  and  dark 
ened  with  blood,  had  partly  escaped  from 
her  French  bonnet  and  hung  heavily  over 
her  shoulders.  The  driver,  who  was  sup 
porting  her  roughly,  and  with  a  familiarity 
that  was  part  of  the  incongruous  spectacle, 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Madame  le  Blank !  ye  know !  Got  cut 
about  the  head  down  at  the  fete  at  South 
Park !  Tried  to  dance  upon  the  table,  and 
rolled  over  on  some  champagne  bottles. 
See?  Wants  plastering  up!  " 

"  Ah  brute !  Hog !  Nozzing  of  ze  kine ! 
Why  will  you  lie?  I  dance!  Ze  cowards, 
fools,  traitors  zere  upset  ze  table  and  I  fall. 
I  am  cut!  Ah,  my  God,  how  I  am  cut!  " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  lapsed  heavily 
against  the  counter.  At  which  Kane  hur 
ried  around  to  support  her  into  the  surgery 
with  the  one  fixed  idea  in  his  bewildered 
mind  of  getting  her  out  of  the  shop,  and, 
suggestively,  into  the  domain  and  under 
the  responsibility  of  his  partner.  The  hack- 


182      HO  W  REUBEN  ALLEN 

man,  apparently  relieved  and  washing  his 
hands  of  any  further  complicity  in  the 
matter,  nodded  and  smiled,  and  saying,  "I 
reckon  I  '11  wait  outside,  pardner,"  retreated 
incontinently  to  his  vehicle.  To  add  to 
Kane's  half -ludicrous  embarrassment  the 
fair  patient  herself  slightly  resisted  his  sup 
port,  accused  the  hackman  of  "abandoning 
her,"  and  demanded  if  Kane  knew  "zee 
reason  of  zees  affair,"  yet  she  presently 
lapsed  again  into  the  large  reclining-chair 
which  he  had  wheeled  forward,  with  open 
mouth,  half -shut  eyes,  and  a  strange  Pier 
rette  mask  of  face,  combined  of  the  pallor 
of  faintness  and  chalk,  and  the  rouge  of 
paint  and  blood.  At  which  Kane's  cau 
tiousness  again  embarrassed  him.  A  little 
brandy  from  the  bottle  labeled  "Vini 
Galli "  seemed  to  be  indicated,  but  his  in 
experience  could  not  determine  if  her  relax 
ation  was  from  bloodlessness  or  the  reacting 
depression  of  alcohol.  In  this  dilemma  he 
chose  a  medium  course,  with  aromatic  spir 
its  of  ammonia,  and  mixing  a  diluted  quan 
tity  in  a  measuring-glass,  poured  it  between 
her  white  lips.  A  start,  a  struggle,  a  cough 
—  a  volley  of  imprecatory  French,  and  the 
knocking  of  the  glass  from  his  hand  fol- 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW   LIFE"      183 

lowed  —  but  she  came  to!  He  quickly 
sponged  her  head  of  the  half-coagulated 
blood,  and  removed  a  few  fragments  of 
glass  from  a  long  laceration  of  the  scalp. 
The  shock  of  the  cold  water  and  the  appear 
ance  of  the  ensanguined  basin  frightened 
her  into  a  momentary  passivity.  But  when 
Kane  found  it  necessary  to  cut  her  hair  in 
the  region  of  the  wound  in  order  to  apply 
the  adhesive  plaster,  she  again  endeavored 
to  rise  and  grasp  the  scissors. 

"You'll  bleed  to  death  if  you're  not 
quiet,"  said  the  young  man  with  dogged 
gravity. 

Something  in  his  manner  impressed  her 
into  silence  again.  He  cut  whole  locks 
away  ruthlessly ;  he  was  determined  to  draw 
the  edges  of  the  wound  together  with  the 
strip  of  plaster  and  stop  the  bleeding  —  if 
he  cropped  the  whole  head.  His  excessive 
caution  for  her  physical  condition  did  not 
extend  to  her  superficial  adornment.  Her 
yellow  tresses  lay  on  the  floor,  her  neck 
and  shoulders  were  saturated  with  water 
from  the  sponge  which  he  continually  ap 
plied,  until  the  heated  strips  of  plaster  had 
closed  the  wound  almost  hermetically.  She 
whimpered,  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks ;  but 


184      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

so  long  as  it  was  not  blood  the  young  man 
was  satisfied. 

In  the  midst  of  it  he  heard  the  shop  door 
open,  and  presently  the  sound  of  rapping 
on  the  counter.  Another  customer! 

Mr.  Kane  called  out,  "Wait  a  moment," 
and  continued  his  ministrations.  After  a 
pause  the  rapping  recommenced.  Kane 
was  just  securing  the  last  strip  of  plaster 
and  preserved  a  preoccupied  silence.  Then 
the  door  flew  open  abruptly  and  a  figure 
appeared  impatiently  on  the  threshold.  It 
was  that  of  a  miner  recently  returned  from 
the  gold  diggings  —  so  recently  that  he  evi 
dently  had  not  had  time  to  change  his  clothes 
at  his  adjacent  hotel,  and  stood  there  in  his 
high  boots,  duck  trousers,  and  flannel  shirt, 
over  which  his  coat  was  slung  like  a  hussar's 
jacket  from  his  shoulder.  Kane  would  have 
uttered  an  indignant  protest  at  the  intru 
sion,  had  not  the  intruder  himself  as  quickly 
recoiled  with  an  astonishment  and  contrition 
that  was  beyond  the  effect  of  any  reproval. 
He  literally  gasped  at  the  spectacle  before 
him.  A  handsomely  dressed  woman  reclin 
ing  in  a  chair;  lace  and  jewelry  and  ribbons 
depending  from  her  saturated  shoulders; 
tresses  of  golden  hair  filling  her  lap  and 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN   "SAW  LIFE"      185 

lying  on  the  floor;  a  pail  of  ruddy  water 
and  a  sponge  at  her  feet,  and  a  pale  young 
man  bending  over  her  head  with  a  spirit 
lamp  and  strips  of  yellow  plaster ! 

"'Scuse  me,  pard!  I  was  just  dropping 
in;  don't  you  hurry!  I  kin  wait,"  he 
stammered,  falling  back,  and  then  the  door 
closed  abruptly  behind  him. 

Kane  gathered  up  the  shorn  locks,  wiped 
the  face  and  neck  of  his  patient  with  a  clean 
towel  and  his  own  handkerchief,  threw  her 
gorgeous  opera  cloak  over  her  shoulders, 
and  assisted  her  to  rise.  She  did  so,  weakly 
but  obediently;  she  was  evidently  stunned 
and  cowed  in  some  mysterious  way  by  his 
material  attitude,  perhaps,  or  her  sudden 
realization  of  her  position;  at  least  the 
contrast  between  her  aggressive  entrance 
into  the  shop  and  her  subdued  preparation 
for  her  departure  was  so  remarkable  that  it 
affected  even  Kane's  preoccupation. 

"There,"  he  said,  slightly  relaxing  his 
severe  demeanor  with  an  encouraging  smile, 
"I  think  this  will  do;  we've  stopped  the 
bleeding.  It  will  probably  smart  a  little  as 
the  plaster  sets  closer.  I  can  send  my  part 
ner,  Dr.  Sparlow,  to  you  in  the  morning." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously  and  with  a 


186      UOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

strange  smile.  "And  zees  Doctor  Sparr- 
low  —  eez  he  like  you,  M'sieu  ?  " 

"He  is  older,  and  very  well  known," 
said  the  young  man  seriously.  "I  can 
safely  recommend  him." 

"Ah,"  she  repeated,  with  a  pensive  smile 
which  made  Kane  think  her  quite  pretty. 
"Ah  —  he  ez  older  —  your  Doctor  Sparr- 
low  —  but  you  are  strong,  M'sieu." 

"And,"  said  Kane  vaguely,  "he  will  tell 
you  what  to  do." 

"Ah,"  she  repeated  again  softly,  with 
the  same  smile,  "he  will  tell  me  what  to  do 
if  I  shall  not  know  myself.  Dat  ez  good." 

Kane  had  already  wrapped  her  shorn 
locks  in  a  piece  of  spotless  white  paper  and 
tied  it  up  with  narrow  white  ribbon  in  the 
dainty  fashion  dear  to  druggists'  clerks. 
As  he  handed  it  to  her  she  felt  in  her 
pocket  and  produced  a  handful  of  gold. 

"What  shall  I  pay  for  zees,  M'sieu?" 

Kane  reddened  a  little  —  solely  because 
of  his  slow  arithmetical  faculties.  Adhe 
sive  plaster  was  cheap  —  he  would  like  to 
have  charged  proportionately  for  the  exact 
amount  he  had  used;  but  the  division  was 
beyond  him!  And  he  lacked  the  trader's 
instinct. 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE'1      187 

"Twenty-five  cents,  I  think,"  he  hazarded 
briefly. 

She  started,  but  smiled  again.  "Twenty- 
five  cents  for  all  zees  —  ze  medicine,  ze 
strips  for  ze  head,  ze  hair  cut"  —  she 
glanced  at  the  paper  parcel  he  had  given 
her  —  "it  is  only  twenty-five  cents?  " 

"That 'sail." 

He  selected  from  her  outstretched  palm, 
with  some  difficulty,  the  exact  amount,  the 
smallest  coin  it  held.  She  again  looked  at 
him  curiously  —  half  confusedly  —  and 
moved  slowly  into  the  shop.  The  miner, 
who  was  still  there,  retreated  as  before  with 
a  gaspingly  apologetic  gesture  —  even  flat 
tening  himself  against  the  window  to  give 
her  sweeping  silk  flounces  freer  passage. 
As  she  passed  into  the  street  with  a  "  Merci, 
M'sieu,  good  a'night,"  and  the  hackman 
started  from  the  vehicle  to  receive  her,  the 
miner  drew  a  long  breath,  and  bringing  his 
fist  down  upon  the  counter,  ejaculated,  — 

"B'  gosh !     She  's  a  stunner !  " 

Kane,  a  good  deal  relieved  at  her  depar 
ture  and  the  success  of  his  ministration, 
smiled  benignly. 

The  stranger  again  stared  after  the  re 
treating  carriage,  looked  around  the  shop, 


188      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

and  even  into  the  deserted  surgery,  and 
approached  the  counter  confidentially. 
"  Look  yer,  pardner.  I  kem  straight  from 
St.  Jo,  Mizzorri,  to  Gold  Hill  —  whar  I  've 
got  a  claim  —  and  I  reckon  this  is  the  first 
time  I  ever  struck  San  Francisker.  I  ain't 
up  to  towny  ways  nohow,  and  I  allow  that 
mebbe  I  'm  rather  green.  So  we  '11  let  that 
pass!  Now  look  yer!"  he  added,  lean 
ing  over  the  counter  with  still  deeper  and 
even  mysterious  confidence,  "I  suppose  this 
yer  kind  o'  thing  is  the  regular  go  here, 
eh?  nothin'  new  to  you!  in  course  no!  But 
to  me,  pard,  it's  just  fetchin'  me!  Lifts 
me  clear  outer  my  boots  every  time !  Why, 
when  I  popped  into  that  thar  room,  and 
saw  that  lady  —  all  gold,  furbelows,  and 
spangles  —  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  sit- 
tin'  in  that  cheer  and  you  a-cuttin'  her  h'r 
and  swabbin'  her  head  o'  blood,  and  kinder 
prospectin'  for  '  indications,'  so  to  speak, 
and  doin'  it  so  kam  and  indifferent  like,  I 
sez  to  myself,  '  Rube,  Rube, '  sez  I,  '  this 
yer  's  life !  city  life !  San  Francisker  life ! 
and  b'  gosh,  you  've  dropped  into  it!  ' 
Now,  pard,  look  yar!  don't  you  answer, 
ye  know,  ef  it  ain't  square  and  above  board 
for  me  to  know;  I  ain't  askin'  you  to  give 


iTY 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW 


the  show  away,  ye  know,  in  the  matter  of 
high-toned  ladies  like  that,  but "  (very  mys 
teriously,  and  sinking  his  voice  to  the  lowest 
confidential  pitch,  as  he  put  his  hand  to 
his  ear  as  if  to  catch  the  hushed  reply), 
"what  mout  hev  bin  happening,  pard?" 

Considerably  amused  at  the  man's  sim 
plicity,  Kane  replied  good  -  humoredly : 
"Danced  among  some  champagne  bottles 
on  a  table  at  a  party,  fell  and  got  cut  by 
glass." 

The  stranger  nodded  his  head  slowly  and 
approvingly  as  he  repeated  with  infinite  de- 
liberateness :  "Danced  on  champagne  bot 
tles,  champagne!  you  said,  pard?  at  a 
pahty !  Yes !  "  (musingly  and  approvingly). 
"I  reckon  that 's  about  the  gait  they  take. 
She  'd  do  it." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you? 
sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  said  Kane, 
glancing  at  the  clock. 

"O  mef  Lord!  ye  needn't  mind  me. 
Why,  I  should  wait  for  any  thin'  o'  the 
like  o'  that,  and  be  just  proud  to  do  it! 
And  ye  see,  I  sorter  helped  myself  while 
you  war  busy." 

"Helped  yourself?"  said  Kane  in  aston 
ishment. 


190      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

"Yes,  outer  that  bottle."  He  pointed  to 
the  ammonia  bottle,  which  still  stood  on  the 
counter.  "It  seemed  to  be  handy  and  pop 
ular." 

"Man!  you  might  have  poisoned  your 
self." 

The  stranger  paused  a  moment  at  the 
idea,  "So  I  mout,  I  reckon,"  he  said 
musingly,  "that 's  so!  pizined  myself  jest  ez 
you  was  lookin'  arter  that  high-toned  case, 
and  kinder  bothered  you!  It 's  like  me!  " 

"I  mean  it  required  diluting;  you  ought 
to  have  taken  it  in  water,"  said  Kane. 

"I  reckon!  It  did  sorter  h'ist  me  over 
to  the  door  for  a  little  fresh  air  at  first! 
seemed  rayther  scaldy  to  the  lips.  But  wot 
of  it  that  got  ihar"  he  put  his  hand  gravely 
to  his  stomach,  "did  me  pow'ful  good." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  you?"  asked 
Kane. 

"Well,  ye  see,  pard "  (confidentially 
again),  "I  reckon  it's  suthin'  along  o'  my 
heart.  Times  it  gets  to  poundin'  away  like 
a  quartz  stamp,  and  then  it  stops  suddent 
like,  and  kinder  leaves  me  out  too." 

Kane  looked  at  him  more  attentively. 
He  was  a  strong,  powerfully  built  man  with 
a  complexion  that  betrayed  nothing  more 


no W  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      191 

serious  than  the  effects  of  mining  cookery. 
It  was  evidently  a  common  case  of  indiges 
tion. 

"I  don't  say  it  would  not  have  done  you 
some  good  if  properly  administered,"  he 
replied.  "If  you  like  I  '11  put  up  a  diluted 
quantity  and  directions?  " 

"That 's  me,  every  time,  pardner!  "  said 
the  stranger  with  an  accent  of  relief. 
"And  look  yer,  don't  you  stop  at  that!  Ye 
just  put  me  up  some  samples  like  of  any- 
thin'  you  think  mout  be  likely  to  hit.  I  '11 
go  in  for  a  fair  show,  and  then  meander  in 
every  now  and  then,  betwixt  times,  to  let 
you  know.  Ye  don't  mind  my  drifting  in 
here,  do  ye?  It 's  about  ez  likely  a  place  ez 
I  struck  since  I '  ve  left  the  Sacramento  boat, 
and  my  hotel,  just  round  the  corner.  Ye 
just  sample  me  a  bit  o'  every  thin' ;  don't 
mind  the  expense.  I  '11  take  your  word  for 
it.  The  way  you  —  a  young  fellow  —  jest 
stuck  to  your  work  in  thar,  cool  and  kam 
as  a  woodpecker  —  not  minding  how  high- 
toned  she  was  —  nor  the  jewelery  and  span 
gles  she  had  on  —  jest  got  me!  I  sez  to 
myself,  c  Rube,'  sez  I,  '  whatever 's  wrong 
o'  your  insides,  you  jes  stick  to  that  feller 
to  set  ye  right.'  " 


192      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

The  junior  partner's  face  reddened  as  he 
turned  to  his  shelves  ostensibly  for  consul 
tation.  Conscious  of  his  inexperience,  the 
homely  praise  of  even  this  ignorant  man 
was  not  ungrateful.  He  felt,  too,  that  his 
treatment  of  the  Frenchwoman,  though 
successful,  might  not  be  considered  remu 
nerative  from  a  business  point  of  view  by 
his  partner.  He  accordingly  acted  upon 
the  suggestion  of  the  stranger  and  put  up 
two  or  three  specifics  for  dyspepsia.  They 
were  received  with  grateful  alacrity  and  the 
casual  display  of  considerable  gold  in  the 
stranger's  pocket  in  the  process  of  payment. 
He  was  evidently  a  successful  miner. 

After  bestowing  the  bottles  carefully 
about  his  person,  he  again  leaned  confiden 
tially  towards  Kane.  "I  reckon  of  course 
you  know  this  high-toned  lady,  being  in 
the  way  of  seein'  that  kind  o'  folks.  I  sup 
pose  you  won't  mind  telling  me,  ez  a  stran 
ger.  But "  (he  added  hastily,  with  a  depre 
catory  wave  of  his  hand),  "perhaps  ye 
would." 

Mr.  Kane,  in  fact,  had  hesitated.  He 
knew  vaguely  and  by  report  that  Madame 
le  Blanc  was  the  proprietress  of  a  famous 
restaurant,  over  which  she  had  rooms  where 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      193 

private  gambling  was  carried  on  to  a  great 
extent.  It  was  also  alleged  that  she  was 
protected  by  a  famous  gambler  and  a  some 
what  notorious  bully.  Mr.  Kane's  caution 
suggested  that  he  had  no  right  to  expose 
the  reputation  of  his  chance  customer.  He 
was  silent. 

The  stranger's  face  became  intensely 
sympathetic  and  apologetic.  "I  see!  — 
not  another  word,  pard!  It  ain't  the  square 
thing  to  be  givin'  her  away,  and  I  oughtn't 
to  hev  asked.  Well  —  so  long !  I  reckon 
I  '11  jest  drift  back  to  the  hotel.  I  ain't 
been  in  San  Francisker  mor'  'n  three  hours, 
and  I  calkilate,  pard,  that  I  've  jest  seen 
about  ez  square  a  sample  of  high-toned  life 
as  fellers  ez  haz  bin  here  a  year.  Well, 
hastermanyanner  —  ez  the  Greasers  say. 
I  '11  be  droppin'  in  to-morrow.  My  name  's 
Reuben  Allen  o'  Mariposa.  I  know  yours; 
it 's  on  the  sign,  and  it  ain't  Sparlow." 

He  cast  another  lingering  glance  around 
the  shop,  as  if  loath  to  leave  it,  and  then 
slowly  sauntered  out  of  the  door,  pausing 
in  the  street  a  moment,  in  the  glare  of  the 
red  light,  before  he  faded  into  darkness. 
Without  knowing  exactly  why,  Kane  had 
an  instinct  that  the  stranger  knew  no  one  in 


194      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

San  Francisco,  and  after  leaving  the  shop 
was  going  into  utter  silence  and  obscurity. 

A  few  moments  later  Dr.  Sparlow  re 
turned  to  relieve  his  wearied  partner.  A 
pushing,  active  man,  he  listened  impatiently 
to  Kane's  account  of  his  youthful  practice 
with  Madame  le  Blanc,  without,  however, 
dwelling  much  on  his  methods.  "You 
ought  to  have  charged  her  more,"  the  elder 
said  decisively.  "  She  'd  have  paid  it. 
She  only  came  here  because  she  was  ashamed 
to  go  to  a  big  shop  in  Montgomery  Street 
—  and  she  won't  come  again." 

"But  she  wants  you  to  see  her  to-mor 
row,"  urged  Kane,  "and  I  told  her  you 
would!" 

"You  say  it  was  only  a  superficial  cut?  " 
queried  the  doctor,  "and  you  closed  it? 
Umph!  what  can  she  want  to  see  me  for?  " 
He  paid  more  attention,  however,  to  the 
case  of  the  stranger,  Allen.  "When  he 
comes  here  again,  manage  to  let  me  see 
him."  Mr.  Kane  promised,  yet  for  some 
indefinable  reason  he  went  home  that  night 
not  quite  as  well  satisfied  with  himself. 

He  was  much  more  concerned  the  next 
morning  when,  after  relieving  the  doctor 
for  his  regular  morning  visits,  he  was  star- 


110 W  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      195 

tied  an  hour  later  by  the  abrupt  return  of 
that  gentleman.  His  face  was  marked  by 
some  excitement  and  anxiety,  which  never 
theless  struggled  with  that  sense  of  the  ludi 
crous  which  Californians  in  those  days  im 
ported  into  most  situations  of  perplexity  or 
catastrophe.  Putting  his  hands  deeply  into 
his  trousers  pockets,  he  confronted  his  youth 
ful  partner  behind  the  counter. 

"How  much  did  you  charge  that  French 
woman?"  he  said  gravely. 

"Twenty -five  cents,"  said  Kane  timidly. 

"Well,  I'd  give  it  back  and  add  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  if  she  had  never 
entered  the  shop." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Her  head  will  be  —  and  a  mass  of  it,  in 
a  day,  I  reckon!  Why,  man,  you  put 
enough  plaster  on  it  to  clothe  and  paper 
the  dome  of  the  Capitol!  You  drew  her 
scalp  together  so  that  she  couldn't  shut  her 
eyes  without  climbing  up  the  bed -post! 
You  mowed  her  hair  off  so  that  she  '11  have 
to  wear  a  wig  for  the  next  two  years  —  and 
handed  it  to  her  in  a  beau-ti-ful  sealed 
package !  They  talk  of  suing  me  and  kill 
ing  you  out  of  hand." 

"She   was   bleeding    a    great   deal    and 


196      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

looked  faint,"  said  the  junior  partner;  "I 
thought  I  ought  to  stop  that." 

"And  you  did  —  by  thunder!  Though 
it  might  have  been  better  business  for  the 
shop  if  I  'd  found  her  a  crumbling  ruin 
here,  than  lathed  and  plastered  in  this  fash 
ion,  over  there!  However,"  he  added,  with 
a  laugh,  seeing  an  angry  light  in  his  junior 
partner's  eye,  "she  don't  seem  to  mind  it  — 
the  cursing  all  comes  from  them.  She 
rather  likes  your  style  and  praises  it  — 
that 's  what  gets  me!  Did  you  talk  to  her 
much,"  he  added,  looking  critically  at  his 
partner. 

"I  only  told  her  to  sit  still  or  she  'd  bleed 
to  death,"  said  Kane  curtly. 

"Humph!  —  she  jabbered  something 
about  your  being  '  strong '  and  knowing 
just  how  to  handle  her.  Well,  it  can't  be 
helped  now.  I  think  I  came  in  time  for 
the  worst  of  it  and  have  drawn  their  fire. 
Don't  do  it  again.  The  next  time  a  woman 
with  a  cut  head  and  long  hair  tackles  you, 
fill  up  her  scalp  with  lint  and  tannin,  and 
pack  her  off  to  some  of  the  big  shops  and 
make  them  pick  it  out."  And  with  a  good- 
humored  nod  he  started  off  to  finish  his  in 
terrupted  visits. 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE1'      197 

With  a  vague  sense  of  remorse,  and  yet 
a  consciousness  of  some  injustice  done  him, 
Mr.  Kane  resumed  his  occupation  with  fil 
ters  and  funnels,  and  mortars  and  tritura- 
tions.  He  was  so  gloomily  preoccupied 
that  he  did  not,  as  usual,  glance  out  of  the 
window,  or  he  would  have  observed  the 
mining  stranger  of  the  previous  night  before 
it.  It  was  not  until  the  man's  bowed  shoul 
ders  blocked  the  light  of  the  doorway  that 
he  looked  up  and  recognized  him.  .  Kane 
was  in  no  mood  to  welcome  his  appearance. 
His  presence,  too,  actively  recalled  the  last 
night's  adventure  of  which  he  was  a  witness 
—  albeit  a  sympathizing  one.  Kane  shrank 
from  the  illusions  which  he  felt  he  would  be 
sure  to  make.  And  with  his  present  ill 
luck,  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that  his 
ministrations  even  to  him  had  been  any 
more  successful  than  they  had  been  to  the 
Frenchwoman.  But  a  glance  at  his  good- 
humored  face  and  kindling  eyes  removed 
that  suspicion.  Nevertheless,  he  felt  some 
what  embarrassed  and  impatient,  and  per 
haps  could  not  entirely  conceal  it.  He  for 
got  that  the  rudest  natures  are  sometimes 
the  most  delicately  sensitive  to  slights,  and 
the  stranger  had  noticed  his  manner  and 
began  apologetically. 


198 

"I  allowed  I'd  just  drop  in  anyway  to 
tell  ye  that  these  thar  pills  you  giv'  me  did 
me  a  heap  o'  good  so  far  —  though  mebbe 
it 's  only  fair  to  give  the  others  a  show  too, 
which  I  'm  reckoning  to  do."  He  paused, 
and  then  in  a  submissive  confidence  went 
on:  "But  first  I  wanted  to  hev  you  excuse 
me  for  havin'  asked  all  them  questions 
about  that  high-toned  lady  last  night,  when 
it  warn't  none  of  my  business.  I  am  a 
darned  fool." 

Mr.  Kane  instantly  saw  that  it  was  no 
use  to  keep  up  his  attitude  of  secrecy,  or 
impose  upon  the  ignorant,  simple  man,  and 
said  hurriedly:  "Oh  no.  The  lady  is  very 
well  known.  She  is  the  proprietress  of  a 
restaurant  down  the  street  —  a  house  open 
to  everybody.  Her  name  is  Madame  le 
Blanc;  you  may  have  heard  of  her  before?  " 

To  his  surprise  the  man  exhibited  no 
diminution  of  interest  nor  change  of  senti 
ment  at  this  intelligence.  "Then,"  he  said 
slowly,  "I  reckon  I  might  get  to  see  her 
again.  Ye  see,  Mr.  Kane,  I  rather  took 
a  fancy  to  her  general  style  and  gait  — 
arter  seem'  her  in  that  fix  last  night.  It 
was  rather  like  them  play  pictures  on  the 
stage.  Ye  don't  think  she  'd  make  any 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      199 

fuss  to  seein'  a  rough  old  '  forty-niner  '  like 
me?" 

"Hardly,"  said  Kane,  "but  there  might 
be  some  objection  from  her  gentlemen 
friends,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  — "Jack 
Lane,  a  gambler,  who  keeps  a  faro  bank  in 
her  rooms,  and  Jimmy  O'Ryan,  a  prize 
fighter,  who  is  one  of  her  '  chuckers  out. ' ' 

His  further  relation  of  Madame  le  Blanc's 
entourage  apparently  gave  the  miner  no 
concern.  He  looked  at  Kane,  nodded,  and 
repeated  slowly  and  appreciatively:  "Yes, 
keeps  a  gamblin'  and  faro  bank  and  a  prize 
fighter  —  I  reckon  that  might  be  about  her 
gait  and  style  too.  And  you  say  she 
lives  "  — 

He  stopped,  for  at  this  moment  a  man 
entered  the  shop  quickly,  shut  the  door  be 
hind  him,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 
It  was  done  so  quickly  that  Kane  instinc 
tively  felt  that  the  man  had  been  loitering 
in  the  vicinity  and  had  approached  from 
the  side  street.  A  single  glance  at  the  in 
truder's  face  and  figure  showed  him  that 
it  was  the  bully  of  whom  he  had  just 
spoken.  He  had  seen  that  square,  brutal 
face  once  before,  confronting  the  police  in 
a  riot,  and  had  not  forgotten  it.  But  to- 


200      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

day,  with  the  flush  of  liquor  on  it,  it  had 
an  impatient  awkwardness  and  confused 
embarrassment  that  he  could  not  account 
for.  He  did  not  comprehend  that  the  gen 
uine  bully  is  seldom  deliberate  of  attack, 
and  is  obliged  —  in  common  with  many  of 
the  combative  lower  animals  —  to  lash  him 
self  into  a  previous  fury  of  provocation. 
This  probably  saved  him,  as  perhaps  some 
instinctive  feeling  that  he  was  in  no  imme 
diate  danger  kept  him  cool.  He  remained 
standing  quietly  behind  the  counter.  Allen 
glanced  around  carelessly,  looking  at  the 
shelves. 

The  silence  of  the  two  men  apparently 
increased  the  ruffian's  rage  and  embarrass 
ment.  Suddenly  he  leaped  into  the  air 
with  a  whoop  and  clumsily  executed  a  negro 
double  shuffle  on  the  floor,  which  jarred  the 
glasses  —  yet  was  otherwise  so  singularly 
ineffective  and  void  of  purpose  that  he 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  it  and  had  to  con 
tent  himself  with  glaring  at  Kane. 

"Well,"  said  Kane  quietly,  "what  does 
all  this  mean?  What  do  you  want  here?  " 

"What  does  it  mean?"  repeated  the 
bully,  finding  his  voice  in  a  high  falsetto, 
designed  to  imitate  Kane's.  "It  means 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      201 

I  'm  going  to  play  merry  h — 11  with  this 
shop!  It  means  I'm  goin'  to  clean  it  out 
and  the  blank  hair-cuttin'  blank  that  keeps 
it.  What  do  I  want  here?  Well  — what 
I  want  I  intend  to  help  myself  to,  and  all 
h — 11  can't  stop  me!  Arid"  (working  him 
self  to  the  striking  point)  "who  the  blank 
are  you  to  ask  me?"  He  sprang  towards 
the  counter,  but  at  the  same  moment  Allen 
seemed  to  slip  almost  imperceptibly  and 
noiselessly  between  them,  and  Kane  found 
himself  confronted  only  by  the  miner's 
broad  back. 

"Hoi'  yer  hosses,  stranger,"  said  Allen 
slowly,  as  the  ruffian  suddenly  collided  with 
his  impassive  figure.  "I'm  a  sick  man 
comin'  in  yer  for  medicine.  I  've  got  some- 
thin'  wrong  with  my  heart,  and  goin's  on 
like  this  yer  kinder  sets  it  to  thumpin'." 

"Blank  you  and  your  blank  heart!" 
screamed  the  bully,  turning  in  a  fury  of 
amazement  and  contempt  at  this  impotent 
interruption.  "Who  "  —  but  his  voice 
stopped.  Allen's  powerful  right  arm  had 
passed  over  his  head  and  shoulders  like  a 
steel  hoop,  and  pinioned  his  elbows  against 
his  sides.  Held  rigidly  upright,  he  at 
tempted  to  kick,  but  Allen's  right  leg  here 


202      IIO W  REUBEN  ALLEN 

advanced,  and  firmly  held  his  lower  limbs 
against  the  counter  that  shook  to  his  strug 
gles  and  blasphemous  outcries.  Allen 
turned  quietly  to  Kane,  and,  with  a  gesture 
of  his  unemployed  arm,  said  confidentially : 

"Would  ye  mind  passing  me  down  that 
ar  Komantic  Spirits  of  Ammonyer  ye  gave 
me  last  night?" 

Kane  caught  the  idea,  and  handed  him 
the  bottle. 

"Thar,"  said  Allen,  taking  out  the  stop 
per  and  holding  the  pungent  spirit  against 
the  bully's  dilated  nostrils  and  vociferous 
mouth,  "thar,  smell  that,  and  taste  it,  it 
will  do  ye  good ;  it  was  powerful  kammin' 
to  me  last  night." 

The  ruffian  gasped,  coughed,  choked,  but 
his  blaspheming  voice  died  away  in  a  suffo 
cating  hiccough. 

"Thar,"  continued  Allen,  as  his  now  sub 
dued  captive  relaxed  his  struggling,  "ye  V 
better,  and  so  am  I.  It 's  quieter  here  now, 
and  ye  ain't  affectin'  my  heart  so  bad.  A 
little  fresh  air  will  make  us  both  all  right." 
He  turned  again  to  Kane  in  his  former  sub 
dued  confidential  manner. 

"Would  ye  mind  openin'  that  door?  " 

Kane  flew  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      203 

held  it  wide  open.  The  bully  again  began 
to  struggle,  but  a  second  inhalation  of  the 
hartshorn  quelled  him,  and  enabled  his 
captor  to  drag  him  to  the  door.  As  they 
emerged  upon  the  sidewalk,  the  bully,  with 
a  final  desperate  struggle,  freed  his  arm  and 
grasped  his  pistol  at  his  hip-pocket,  but  at 
the  same  moment  Allen  deliberately  caught 
his  hand,  and  with  a  powerful  side  throw 
cast  him  on  the  pavement,  retaining  the 
weapon  in  his  own  hand.  "I  've  one  of  my 
own,"  he  said  to  the  prostrate  man,  "but 
I  reckon  I  '11  keep  this  yer  too,  until  you  're 
better."  •* 

The  crowd  that  had  collected  quickly, 
recognizing  the  notorious  and  discomfited 
bully,  were  not  of  a  class  to  offer  him  any 
sympathy,  and  he  slunk  away  followed  by 
their  jeers.  Allen  returned  quietly  to  the 
shop.  Kane  was  profuse  in  his  thanks, 
and  yet  oppressed  with  his  simple  friend's 
fatuous  admiration  for  a  woman  who  could 
keep  such  ruffians  in  her  employ.  "You 
know  who  that  man  was,  I  suppose?"  he 
said. 

"I  reckon  it  was  that  'er  prize-fighter 
belongin'  to  that  high-toned  lady,"  re 
turned  Allen  simply.  "But  he  don't  know 


204      HOW  ItEUtiEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

anything  about  rastlin' ,  V  gosh;  only  that 
I  was  afraid  o'  bringin'  on  that  heart  trou 
ble,  I  mout  hev  hurt  him  bad." 

"They  think  "  — hesitated  Kane,    "that 

—  I  —  was  rough  in  my  treatment  of  that 
woman  and  maliciously  cut   off   her  hair. 
This  attack  was  revenge  —  or  "  —  he  hesi 
tated   still   more,    as   he   remembered    Dr. 
Sparlow's  indication  of  the  woman's  feeling 

—  "or  that  bully's  idea  of  revenge." 

"I  see,"  nodded  Allen,  opening  his  small 
sympathetic  eyes  on  Kane  with  an  exasper 
ating  air  of  secrecy —  "just  jealousy." 

Kane  reddened  in  sheer  hopelessness  of 
explanation.  "No;  it  was  earning  his 
wages,  as  he  thought." 

"Never  ye  mind,  pard,"  said  Allen  con 
fidentially.  "I  '11  set  'em  both  right.  Ye 
see,  this  sorter  gives  me  a  show  to  call  at 
that  thar  restaurant  and  give  him  back  his 
six-shooter,  and  set  her  on  the  right  trail 
for  you.  Why,  Lordy !  I  was  here  when 
you  was  fixin'  her  —  I'm  testimony  o'  the 
way  you  did  it  —  and  she  '11  remember  me. 
I  '11  sorter  waltz  round  thar  this  afternoon. 
But  I  reckon  I  won't  be  keepin'  you  from 
your  work  any  longer.  And  look  yar !  — 
I  say,  pard!  —  this  is  seein'  life  in  'Frisco 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      205 

• — ain't  it?  Gosh!  I've  had  more  high 
times  in  this  very  shop  in  two  days,  than 
I  've  had  in  two  years  of  St.  Jo.  So  long, 
Mr.  Kane !  "  He  waved  his  hand,  lounged 
slowly  out  of  the  shop,  gave  a  parting 
glance  up  the  street,  passed  the  window,  and 
was  gone. 

The  next  day  being  a  half-holiday  for 
Kane,  he  did  not  reach  the  shop  until  after 
noon.  "Your  mining  friend  Allen  has  been 
here,"  said  Doctor  Sparlow.  "I  took  the 
liberty  of  introducing  myself,  and  induced 
him  to  let  me  carefully  examine  him.  He 
was  a  little  shy,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it,  as 
I  fear  he  has  some  serious  organic  trouble 
with  his  heart  and  ought  to  have  a  more 
thorough  examination."  Seeing  Kane's 
unaffected  concern,  he  added,  "You  might 
influence  him  to  do  so.  Pie  's  a  good  fellow 
and  ought  to  take  some  care  of  himself. 
By  the  way,  he  told  me  to  tell  you  that 
he  'd  seen  Madame  le  Blanc  and  made  it 
all  right  about  you.  He  seems  to  be  quite 
infatuated  with  the  woman." 

"I  'm  sorry  he  ever  saw  her,"  said  Kane 
bitterly. 

"Well,  his  seeing  her  seems  to  have 
saved  the  shop  from  being  smashed  up,  and 


206      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE" 

you  from  getting  a  punched  head,"  returned 
the  Doctor  with  a  laugh.  "He  's  no  fool  — 
yet  it 's  a  freak  of  human  nature  that  a 
simple  hayseed  like  that  —  a  man  who  's 
lived  in  the  backwoods  all  his  life,  is  likely 
to  be  the  first  to  tumble  before  a  pot  of 
French  rouge  like  her." 

Indeed,  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  there  was 
no  further  doubt  of  Mr.  Eeuben  Allen's 
infatuation.  He  dropped  into  the  shop  fre 
quently  on  his  way  to  and  from  the  restau 
rant,  where  he  now  regularly  took  his  meals ; 
he  spent  his  evenings  in  gambling  in  its 
private  room.  Yet  Kane  was  by  no  means 
sure  that  he  was  losing  his  money  there  un 
fairly,  or  that  he  was  used  as  a  pigeon  by 
the  proprietress  and  her  friends.  The  bully 
O' Ryan  was  turned  away;  Sparlow  grimly 
suggested  that  Allen  had  simply  taken  his 
place,  but  Kane  ingeniously  retorted  that 
the  Doctor  was  only  piqued  because  Allen 
had  evaded  his  professional  treatment. 
Certainly  the  patient  had  never  consented 
to  another  examination,  although  he  repeat 
edly  and  gravely  bought  medicines,  and  was 
a  generous  customer.  Once  or  twice  Kane 
thought  it  his  duty  to  caution  Allen  against 
his  new  friends  and  enlighten  him  as  to 


HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      207 

Madame  le  Blanc's  reputation,  but  his  sug 
gestions  were  received  with  a  good-humored 
submission  that  was  either  the  effect  of  un 
belief  or  of  perfect  resignation  to  the  fact, 
and  he  desisted.  One  morning  Dr.  Spar- 
low  said  cheerfully :  — 

"Would  you  like  to  hear  the  last  thing 
about  your  friend  and  the  Frenchwoman? 
The  boys  can't  account  for  her  singling  out 
a  fellow  like  that  for  her  friend,  so  they  say 
that  the  night  that  she  cut  herself  at  the 
fete  and  dropped  in  here  for  assistance,  she 
found  nobody  here  but  Allen  —  a  chance 
customer !  That  it  was  he  who  cut  off  her 
hair  and  bound  up  her  wounds  in  that  sin 
cere  fashion,  and  she  believed  he  had  saved 
her  life."  The  Doctor  grinned  maliciously 
as  he  added:  "And  as  that's  the  way  his 
tory  is  written  you  see  your  reputation  is 
safe." 

It  may  have  been  a  month  later  that 
San  Francisco  was  thrown  into  a  paroxysm 
of  horror  and  indignation  over  the  assassi 
nation  of  a  prominent  citizen  and  official  in 
the  gambling-rooms  of  Madame  le  Blanc, 
at  the  hands  of  a  notorious  gambler.  The 
gambler  had  escaped,  but  in  one  of  those 
rare  spasms  of  vengeful  morality  which 


208      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN    "SAW  LIFE" 

sometimes  overtakes  communities  who  have 
too  long  winked  at  and  suffered  the  exist 
ence  of  evil,  the  fair  proprietress  and  her 
whole  entourage  were  arrested  and  haled 
before  the  coroner's  jury  at  the  inquest. 
The  greatest  excitement  prevailed;  it  was 
said  that  if  the  jury  failed  in  their  duty, 
the  Vigilance  Committee  had  arranged  for 
the  destruction  of  the  establishment  and 
the  deportation  of  its  inmates.  The  crowd 
that  had  collected  around  the  building  was 
reinforced  by  Kane  and  Dr.  Sparlow,  who 
had  closed  their  shop  in  the  next  block  to 
attend.  When  Kane  had  fought  his  way 
into  the  building  and  the  temporary  court, 
held  in  the  splendidly  furnished  gambling 
saloon,  whose  gilded  mirrors  reflected  the 
eager  faces  of  the  crowd,  the  Chief  of  Police 
was  giving  his  testimony  in  a  formal  official 
manner,  impressive  only  for  its  relentless 
and  impassive  revelation  of  the  character 
and  antecedents  of  the  proprietress.  The 
house  had  been  long  under  the  espionage  of 
the  police;  Madame  le  Blanc  had  a  dozen 
aliases;  she  was  "wanted  "  in  New  Orleans, 
in  New  York,  in  Havana!  It  was  in  her 
house  that  Dyer,  the  bank  clerk,  committed 
suicide;  it  was  there  that  Colonel  Hooley 


HOW  REUBEN   ALLEN  "SAW  LIFE"      209 

was  set  upon  by  her  bully,  O'Kyan;  it  was 
she  —  Kane  heard  with  reddening  cheeks 
—  who  defied  the  police  with  riotous  conduct 
at  &fete  two  months  ago.  As  he  coolly  re 
cited  the  counts  of  this  shameful  indictment, 
Kane  looked  eagerly  around  for  Allen, 
whom  he  knew  had  been  arrested  as  a  wit 
ness.  How  would  he  take  this  terrible  dis 
closure?  He  was  sitting  with  the  others, 
his  arm  thrown  over  the  back  of  his  chair, 
and  his  good-humored  face  turned  towards 
the  woman,  in  his  old  confidential  attitude. 
/She,  gorgeously  dressed,  painted,  but  un 
blushing,  was  cool,  collected,  and  cynical. 

The  Coroner  next  called  the  only  witness 
of  the  actual  tragedy,  "Reuben  Allen." 
The  man  did  not  move  nor  change  his  posi 
tion.  The  summons  was  repeated ;  a  police 
man  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  There 
was  a  pause,  and  the  officer  announced: 
"He  has  fainted,  your  Honor!  " 

"Is  there  a  physician  present?"  asked 
the  Coroner. 

Sparlow  edged  his  way  quickly  to  the 
front.  "I'm  a  medical  man,"  he  said  to 
the  Coroner,  as  he  passed  quickly  to  the 
still,  upright,  immovable  figure  and  knelt 
beside  it  with  his  head  upon  his  heart. 


210      HOW  REUBEN  ALLEN  "  SAW  LIFE" 

There  was  an  awed  silence  as,  after  a  pause, 
he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"The  witness  is  a  patient,  your  Honor, 
whom  I  examined  some  weeks  ago  and 
found  suffering  from  valvular  disease  of 
the  heart.  He  is  dead." 


THREE  VAGABONDS  OF 
TRINIDAD 

"On!  it 's  you,  is  it?"  said  the  Editor. 

The  Chinese  boy  to  whom  the  colloquial 
ism  was  addressed  answered  literally,  after 
his  habit :  — 

"Allee  same  Li  Tee;  me  no  changee. 
Me  no  ollee  China  boy." 

"That 's  so,"  said  the  Editor  with  an  air 
of  conviction.  "I  don't  suppose  there 's 
another  imp  like  you  in  all  Trinidad  County. 
Well,  next  time  don't  scratch  outside  there 
like  a  gopher,  but  come  in." 

"Lass  time,"  suggested  Li  Tee  blandly, 
"me  tap  tappee.  You  no  like  tap  tappee. 
You  say,  alle  same  dam  woodpeckel." 

It  was  quite  true  —  the  highly  sylvan 
surroundings  of  the  Trinidad  "Sentinel" 
office  —  a  little  clearing  in  a  pine  forest  — 
and  its  attendant  fauna,  made  these  signals 
confusing.  An  accurate  imitation  of  a 
woodpecker  was  also  one  of  Li  Tee's  accom 
plishments. 

The  Editor  without  replying  finished  the 


212      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

note  he  was  writing;  at  which  Li  Tee,  as 
if  struck  by  some  coincident  recollection, 
lifted  up  his  long  sleeve,  which  served  him 
as  a  pocket,  and  carelessly  shook  out  a  letter 
on  the  table  like  a  conjuring  trick.  The 
Editor,  with  a  reproachful  glance  at  him, 
opened  it.  It  was  only  the  ordinary  request 
of  an  agricultural  subscriber  —  one  Johnson 
—  that  the  Editor  would  "notice"  a  giant 
radish  grown  by  the  subscriber  and  sent  by 
the  bearer. 

"Where's  the  radish,  Li  Tee?"  said 
the  Editor  suspiciously. 

"No  hab  got.     Ask  Mellikan  boy." 

"What?" 

Here  Li  Tee  condescended  to  explain 
that  on  passing  the  schoolhouse  he  had  been 
set  upon  by  the  schoolboys,  and  that  in  the 
struggle  the  big  radish  —  being,  like  most 
such  monstrosities  of  the  quick  Californian 
soil,  merely  a  mass  of  organized  water  — 
was  "mashed  "  over  the  head  of  some  of  his 
assailants.  The  Editor,  painfully  aware  of 
these  regular  persecutions  of  his  errand 
boy,  and  perhaps  realizing  that  a  radish 
which  could  not  be  used  as  a  bludgeon  was 
not  of  a  sustaining  nature,  forebore  any 
reproof.  "  But  I  cannot  notice  what  I  have 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      213 

n't  seen,  Li  Tee,"  he  said  good-humor- 
edly. 

"S'pose  you  lie  —  allee  same  as  John 
son,"  suggested  Li  with  equal  cheerfulness. 
"He  foolee  you  with  lotten  stuff  —  you 
foolee  Mellikan  man,  allee  same." 

The  Editor  preserved  a  dignified  silence 
until  he  had  addressed  his  letter.  "Take 
this  to  Mrs.  Martin,"  he  said,  handing  it 
to  the  boy;  "and  mind  you  keep  clear  of 
the  schoolhouse.  Don't  go  by  the  Flat 
either  if  the  men  are  at  work,  and  don't, 
if  you  value  your  skin,  pass  Flanigan's 
shanty,  where  you  set  off  those  firecrackers 
and  nearly  burnt  him  out  the  other  day. 
Look  out  for  Barker's  dog  at  the  crossing, 
and  keep  off  the  main  road  if  the  tunnel 
men  are  coming  over  the  hill."  Then  re 
membering  that  he  had  virtually  closed  all 
the  ordinary  approaches  to  Mrs.  Martin's 
house,  he  added,  "Better  go  round  by  the 
woods,  where  you  won't  meet  any  one." 

The  boy  darted  off  through  the  open 
door,  and  the  Editor  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  regretfully  after  him.  He  liked 
his  little  protege  ever  since  that  unfortunate 
child  —  a  waif  from  a  Chinese  wash-house 
—  was  impounded  by  some  indignant  miners 


214      THREE    VAGABONDS   OF  TRINIDAD 

for  bringing  home  a  highly  imperfect  and 
insufficient  washing,  and  kept  as  hostage 
for  a  more  proper  return  of  the  garments. 
Unfortunately,  another  gang  of  miners, 
equally  aggrieved,  had  at  the  same  time 
looted  the  wash-house  and  driven  off  the 
occupants,  so  that  Li  Tee  remained  un 
claimed.  For  a  few  weeks  he  became  a 
sporting  appendage  of  the  miners'  camp; 
the  stolid  butt  of  good-humored  practical 
jokes,  the  victim  alternately  of  careless  in 
difference  or  of  extravagant  generosity. 
He  received  kicks  and  half-dollars  intermit 
tently,  and  pocketed  both  with  stoical  forti 
tude.  But  under  this  treatment  he  pre 
sently  lost  the  docility  and  frugality  which 
was  part  of  his  inheritance,  and  began  to 
put  his  small  wits  against  his  tormentors, 
until  they  grew  tired  of  their  own  mischief 
and  his.  But  they  knew  not  what  to  do 
with  him.  His  pretty  nankeen -yellow  skin 
debarred  him  from  the  white  "public 
school,"  while,  although  as  a  heathen  he 
might  have  reasonably  claimed  attention 
from  the  Sabbath-school,  the  parents  who 
cheerfully  gave  their  contributions  to  the 
heathen  abroad,  objected  to  him  as  a  com 
panion  of  their  children  in  the  church  at 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF    TRINIDAD      215 

home.  At  this  juncture  the  Editor  offered 
to  take  him  into  his  printing  office  as  a 
"devil."  For  a  while  he  seemed  to  be  en 
deavoring,  in  his  old  literal  way,  to  act  up 
to  that  title.  He  inked  everything  but  the 
press.  He  scratched  Chinese  characters  of 
an  abusive  import  on  "leads,"  printed  them, 
and  stuck  them  about  the  office;  he  put 
"punk"  in  the  foreman's  pipe,  and  had 
been  seen  to  swallow  small  type  merely  as 
a  diabolical  recreation.  As  a  messenger 
he  was  fleet  of  foot,  but  uncertain  of  deliv 
ery.  Some  time  previously  the  Editor  had 
enlisted  the  sympathies  of  Mrs.  Martin,  the 
good-natured  wife  of  a  farmer,  to  take  him 
in  her  household  on  trial,  but  on  the  third 
day  Li  Tee  had  run  away.  Yet  the  Editor 
had  not  despaired,  and  it  was  to  urge  her 
to  a  second  attempt  that  he  dispatched  that 
letter. 

He  was  still  gazing  abstractedly  into  the 
depths  of  the  wood  when  he  was  conscious 
of  a  slight  movement  —  but  no  sound  —  in 
a  clump  of  hazel  near  him,  and  a  stealthy 
figure  glided  from  it.  He  at  once  recog 
nized  it  as  "Jim,"  a  well-known  drunken ^ 
Indian  vagrant  of  the  settlement  —  tied  to 
its  civilization  by  the  single  link  of  "fire 


216      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

water,"  for  which  he  forsook  equally  the 
Reservation  where  it  was  forbidden  and  his 
own  camps  where  it  was  unknown.  Uncon 
scious  of  his  silent  observer,  he  dropped 
upon  all  fours,  with  his  ear  and  nose  alter 
nately  to  the  ground  like  some  tracking 
animal.  Then  having  satisfied  himself,  he 
rose,  and  bending  forward  in  a  dogged  trot, 
made  a  straight  line  for  the  woods.  He 
was  followed  a  few  seconds  later  by  his  dog 
—  a  slinking,  rough,  wolf -like  brute,  whose 
superior  instinct,  however,  made  him  detect 
the  silent  presence  of  some  alien  humanity 
in  the  person  of  the  Editor,  and  to  recog 
nize  it  with  a  yelp  of  habit,  anticipatory  of 
the  stone  that  he  knew  was  always  thrown 
at  him. 

"That's  cute,"  said  a  voice,  "but  it's 
just  what  I  expected  all  along." 

The  Editor  turned  quickly.  His  fore 
man  was  standing  behind  him,  and  had  evi 
dently  noticed  the  whole  incident. 

"It's  what  I  allus  said,"  continued  the 
man.  "That  boy  and  that  Injin  are  thick 
as  thieves.  Ye  can't  see  one  without  the 
other  —  and  they  've  got  their  little  tricks 
and  signals  by  which  they  follow  each  other. 
T'  other  day  when  you  was  kalkilatin'  Li 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      217 

Tee  was  doin'  your  errands  I  tracked  him 
out  on  the  marsh,  just  by  followin'  that 
ornery,  pizenous  dog  o'  Jim's.  There  was 
the  whole  caboodle  of  'em  —  including  Jim 
—  campin'  out,  and  eatin'  raw  fish  that 
Jim  had  ketched,  and  green  stuff  they  had 
both  sneaked  outer  Johnson's  garden.  Mrs. 
Martin  may  take  him,  but  she  won't  keep 
him  long  while  Jim  's  round.  What  makes 
Li  f oiler  that  blamed  old  Injin  soaker,  and 
what  makes  Jim,  who,  at  least,  is  a  'Meri- 
can,  take  up  with  a  furrin'  heathen,  just 
gets  me." 

The  Editor  did  not  reply.  He  had  heard 
something  of  this  before.  Yet,  after  all, 
why  should  not  these  equal  outcasts  of  civi 
lization  cling  together! 

Li  Tee's  stay  with  Mrs.  Martin  was 
brief.  His  departure  was  hastened  by  an 
untoward  event  —  apparently  ushered  in,  as 
in  the  case  of  other  great  calamities,  by  a 
mysterious  portent  in  the  sky.  One  morn 
ing  an  extraordinary  bird  of  enormous  di 
mensions  was  seen  approaching  from  the 
horizon,  and  eventually  began  to  hover  over 
the  devoted  town.  Careful  scrutiny  of  this 
ominous  fowl,  however,  revealed  the  fact 


218      THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD 

that  it  was  a  monstrous  Chinese  kite,  in  the 
shape  of  a  flying  dragon.  The  spectacle 
imparted  considerable  liveliness  to  the  com 
munity,  which,  however,  presently  changed 
to  some  concern  and  indignation.  It  ap 
peared  that  the  kite  was  secretly  constructed 
by  Li  Tee  in  a  secluded  part  of  Mrs.  Mar 
tin's  clearing,  but  when  it  was  first  tried 
by  him  he  found  that  through  some  error 
of  design  it  required  a  tail  of  unusual  pro 
portions.  This  he  hurriedly  supplied  by 
the  first  means  he  found  —  Mrs.  Martin's 
clothes-line,  with  part  of  the  weekly  wash 
depending  from  it.  This  fact  was  not  at 
first  noticed  by  the  ordinary  sightseer,  al 
though  the  tail  seemed  peculiar  —  yet,  per 
haps,  not  more  peculiar  than  a  dragon's  tail 
ought  to  be.  But  when  the  actual  theft 
was  discovered  and  reported  through  the 
town,  a  vivacious  interest  was  created,  and 
spy -glasses  were  used  to  identify  the  various 
articles  of  apparel  still  hanging  on  that 
ravished  clothes-line.  These  garments,  in 
the  course  of  their  slow  disengagement  from 
the  clothes-pins  through  the  gyrations  of  the 
kite,  impartially  distributed  themselves  over 
the  town  —  one  of  Mrs.  Martin's  stockings 
falling  upon  the  veranda  of  the  Polka  Saloon, 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      219 

and  the  other  being  afterwards  discovered 
on  the  belfry  of  the  First  Methodist  Church 

—  to  the  scandal  of  the  congregation.     It 
would  have  been  well  if   the  result  of   Li 
Tee's  invention  had  ended  here.     Alas!  the 
kite-flyer  and  his  accomplice,  "Injin  Jim," 
were  tracked  by  means  of  the  kite's  tell-tale 
cord  to  a  lonely  part  of  the  marsh  and  rudely 
dispossessed  of  their  charge  by  Deac.on  Horn- 
blower   and   a   constable.      Unfortunately, 
the   captors   overlooked    the  fact   that   the 
kite-flyers  had  taken  the  precaution  of  mak 
ing  a  "half -turn"  of  *the  stout  cord  around 
a  log  to  ease  the  tremendous  pull  of  the  kite 

—  whose  power  the  captors  had  not  reckoned 
upon  —  and  the  Deacon  incautiously  substi 
tuted  his  own  body  for  the  log.     A  singu 
lar  spectacle  is  said  to  have  then   presented 
itself  to  the  on-lookers.     The  Deacon  was 
seen   to   be    running   wildly  by    leaps   and 
bounds  over  the  marsh  after  the  kite,  closely 
followed  by  the  constable  in  equally  wild 
efforts  to    restrain  him  by  tugging  at   the 
end  of  the  line.     The   extraordinary   race 
continued  to  the  town  until  the  constable 
fell,    losing    his    hold    of    the    line.     This 
seemed  to  impart  a  singular  specific  levity 
to  the  Deacon,  who,  to  the  astonishment  of 


220       THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

everybody,  incontinently  sailed  up  into  a 
tree!  When  he  was  succored  and  cut  down 
from  the  demoniac  kite,  he  was  found  to 
have  sustained  a  dislocation  of  the  shoulder, 
and  the  constable  was  severely  shaken.  By 
that  one  infelicitous  stroke  the  two  outcasts 
made  an  enemy  of  the  Law  and  the  Gospel 
as  represented  in  Trinidad  County.  It  is 
to  be  feared  also  that  the  ordinary  emotional 
instinct  of  a  frontier  community,  to  which 
they  were  now  simply  abandoned,  was  as 
little  to  be  trusted.  In  this  dilemma  they 
disappeared  from  the  town  the  next  day 
—  no  one  knew  where.  A  pale  blue  smoke 
rising  from  a  lonely  island  in  the  bay  for 
some  days  afterwards  suggested  their  pos 
sible  refuge.  But  nobody  greatly  cared. 
The  sympathetic  mediation  of  the  Editor 
was  characteristically  opposed  by  Mr.  Par 
kin  Skinner,  a  prominent  citizen :  — 

"It 's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  senti 
ment  about  niggers,  Chinamen,  and  Injins, 
and  you  fellers  can  laugh  about  the  Deacon 
being  snatched  up  to  heaven  like  Elijah  in 
that  blamed  Chinese  chariot  of  a  kite  —  but 
I  kin  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that  this  is  a 
white  man's  country!  Yes,  sir,  you  can't 
get  over  it !  The  nigger  of  every  descrip- 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      221 

tion  —  yeller,  brown,  or  black,  call  him 
'Chinese,'  'Injin,'  or  'Kanaka,'  or  what 
you  like  —  hez  to  clar  off  of  God's  footstool 
when  the  Anglo-Saxon  gets  started!  It 
stands  to  reason  that  they  can't  live  along 
side  o'  printin'  presses,  M'Cormick's  reap 
ers,  and  the  Bible!  Yes,  sir!  the  Bible; 
and  Deacon  Hornblower  kin  prove  it  to 
you.  It 's  our  manifest  destiny  to  clar 
them  out  —  that  's  what  we  was  put  here 
for  —  and  it  's  just  the  work  we  've  got  to 
do!" 

I  have  ventured  to  quote  Mr.  Skinner's 
stirring  remarks  to  show  that  probably  Jim 
and  Li  Tee  ran  away  only  in  anticipation 
of  a  possible  lynching,  and  to  prove  that 
advanced  sentiments  of  this  high  arid  en 
nobling  nature  really  obtained  forty  years 
ago  in  an  ordinary  American  frontier  town 
which  did  not  then  dream  of  Expansion  and 
Empire ! 

Howbeit,  Mr.  Skinner  did  not  make  al 
lowance  for  mere  human  nature.  One 
morning  Master  Bob  Skinner,  his  son,  aged 
twelve,  evaded  the  schoolhouse,  and  started 
in  an  old  Indian  "dug-out"  to  invade  the 
island  of  the  miserable  refugees.  His  pur 
pose  was  not  clearly  defined  to  himself,  but 


222      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

was  to  be  modified  by  circumstances.  He 
would  either  capture  Li  Tee  and  Jim,  or 
join  them  in  their  lawless  existence.  He 
had  prepared  himself  for  either  event  by 
surreptitiously  borrowing  his  father's  gun. 
He  also  carried  victuals,  having  heard  that 
Jim  ate  grasshoppers  and  Li  Tee  rats,  and 
misdoubting  his  own  capacity  for  either 
diet.  He  paddled  slowly,  well  in  shore,  to 
be  secure  from  observation  at  home,  and 
then  struck  out  boldly  in  his  leaky  canoe 
for  the  island  —  a  tufted,  tussocky  shred 
of  the  marshy  promontory  torn  off  in  some 
tidal  storm.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  the  bay 
being  barely  ruffled  by  the  afternoon 
"trades;"  but  as  he  neared  the  island  he 
came  upon  the  swell  from  the  bar  and  the 
thunders  of  the  distant  Pacific,  and  grew 
a  little  frightened.  The  canoe,  losing  way, 
fell  into  the  trough  of  the  swell,  shipping 
salt  water,  still  more  alarming  to  the  prairie - 
bred  boy.  Forgetting  his  plan  of  a  stealthy 
invasion,  he  shouted  lustily  as  the  helpless 
and  water-logged  boat  began  to  drift  past 
the  island ;  at  which  a  lithe  figure  emerged 
from  the  reeds,  threw  off  a  tattered  blanket, 
and  slipped  noiselessly,  like  some  animal, 
into  the  water.  It  was  Jim,  who,  half 


THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD      223 

wading,  half  swimming,  brought  the  canoe 
and  boy  ashore.  Master  Skinner  at  once 
gave  up  the  idea  of  invasion,  and  concluded 
to  join  the  refugees. 

This  was  easy  in  his  defenceless  state, 
and  his  manifest  delight  in  their  rude  en 
campment  and  gypsy  life,  although  he  had 
been  one  of  Li  Tee's  oppressors  in  the  past. 
But  that  stolid  pagan  had  a  philosophical 
indifference  which  might  have  passed  for 
Christian  forgiveness,  and  Jim's  native 
reticence  seemed  like  assent.  And,  possi 
bly,  in  the  minds  of  these  two  vagabonds 
there  might  have  been  a  natural  sympathy 
for  this  other  truant  from  civilization,  and 
some  delicate  flattery  in  the  fact  that  Mas 
ter  Skinner  was  not  driven  out,  but  came 
of  his  own  accord.  Howbeit,  they  fished 
together,  gathered  cranberries  on  the  marsh, 
shot  a  wild  duck  and  two  plovers,  and  when 
Master  Skinner  assisted  in  the  cooking  of 
their  fish  in  a  conical  basket  sunk  in  the 
ground,  filled  with  water,  heated  by  rolling 
red-hot  stones  from  their  drift-wood  fire 
into  the  buried  basket,  the  boy's  felicity 
was  supreme.  And  what  an  afternoon ! 
To  lie,  after  this  feast,  on  their  bellies  in 
the  grass,  replete  like  animals,  hidden  from 


224      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

everything  but  the  sunshine  above  them ;  so 
quiet  that  gray  clouds  of  sandpipers  settled 
fearlessly  around  them,  and  a  shining  brown 
muskrat  slipped  from  the  ooze  within  a  few 
feet  of  their  faces  —  was  to  feel  themselves 
a  part  of  the  wild  life  in  earth  and  sky. 
Not  that  their  own  predatory  instincts  were 
hushed  by  this  divine  peace;  that  intermit 
ting  black  spot  upon  the  water,  declared  by 
the  Indian  to  be  a  seal,  the  stealthy  glide 
of  a  yellow  fox  in  the  ambush  of  a  callow 
brood  of  mallards,  the  momentary  straying 
of  an  elk  from  the  upland  upon  the  borders 
of  the  marsh,  awoke  their  tingling  nerves 
to  the  happy  but  fruitless  chase.  And 
when  night  came,  too  soon,  and  they  pigged 
together  around  the  warm  ashes  of  their 
camp-fire,  under  the  low  lodge  poles  of 
their  wigwam  of  dried  mud,  reeds,  and 
driftwood,  with  the  combined  odors  of  fish, 
wood-smoke,  and  the  warm  salt  breath  of 
the  marsh  in  their  nostrils,  they  slept  con 
tentedly.  The  distant  lights  of  the  settle 
ment  went  out  one  by  one,  the  stars  came 
out,  very  large  and  very  silent,  to  take 
their  places.  The  barking  of  a  dog  on  the 
nearest  point  was  followed  by  another  far 
ther  inland.  But  Jim's  dog,  curled  at  the 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      225 

feet  of  his  master,  did  not  reply.  What 
had  he  to  do  with  civilization  ? 

The  morning  brought  some  fear  of  conse 
quences  to  Master  Skinner,  but  no  abate 
ment  of  his  resolve  not  to  return.  But 
here  he  was  oddly  combated  by  Li  Tee. 
"S'pose  you  go  back  allee  same.  You 
tellee  f  am 'lee  canoe  go  topside  down  —  you 
plentee  swimee  to  bush.  Allee  night  in 
bush.  Housee  big  way  off  —  how  can  get  ? 
Sabe?" 

"And  I'll  leave  the  gun,  and  tell  Dad 
that  when  the  canoe  upset  the  gun  got 
drowned,"  said  the  boy  eagerly. 

Li  Tee  nodded. 

"And  come  again  Saturday,  and  bring 
more  powder  and  shot  and  a  bottle  for 
Jim,"  said  Master  Skinner  excitedly. 

"Good!  "  grunted  the  Indian. 

Then  they  ferried  the  boy  over  to  the 
peninsula,  and  set  him  on  a  trail  across  the 
marshes,  known  only  to  themselves,  which 
would  bring  him  home.  And  when  the 
Editor  the  next  morning  chronicled  among 
his  news,  "Adrift  on  the  Bay  —  A  School 
boy's  Miraculous  Escape,"  he  knew  as  little 
what  part  his  missing  Chinese  errand  boy 
had  taken  in  it  as  the  rest  of  his  readers. 


226      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

Meantime  the  two  outcasts  returned  to 
their  island  camp.  It  may  have  occurred 
to  them  that  a  little  of  the  sunlight  had 
gone  from  it  with  Bob;  for  they  were  in 
a  dull,  stupid  way  fascinated  by  the  little 
white  tyrant  who  had  broken  bread  with 
them.  He  had  been  delightfully  selfish 
and  frankly  brutal  to  them,  as  only  a 
schoolboy  could  be,  with  the  addition  of  the 
consciousness  of  his  superior  race.  Yet 
they  each  longed  for  his  return,  although 
he  was  seldom  mentioned  in  their  scanty 
conversation  —  carried  on  in  monosyllables, 
each  in  his  own  language,  or  with  some 
common  English  word,  or  more  often  re 
stricted  solely  to  signs.  By  a  delicate  flat 
tery,  when  they  did  speak  of  him  it  was  in 
what  they  considered  to  be  his  own  lan 
guage. 

"Boston  boy,  plenty  like  catchee  Aim," 
Jim  would  say,  pointing  to  a  distant  swan. 
Or  Li  Tee,  hunting  a  striped  water  snake 
from  the  reeds,  would  utter  stolidly,  "Meli- 
kan  boy  no  likee  snake."  Yet  the  next  two 
days  brought  some  trouble  and  physical 
discomfort  to  them.  Bob  had  consumed, 
or  wasted,  all  their  provisions  —  and,  still 
more  unfortunately,  his  righteous  visit,  his 


THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD      227 

gun,  and  his  superabundant  animal  spirits 
had  frightened  away  the  game,  which  their 
habitual  quiet  and  taciturnity  had  beguiled 
into  trustfulness.  They  were  half  starved, 
but  they  did  not  blame  him.  It  would 
come  all  right  when  he  returned.  They 
counted  the  days,  Jim  with  secret  notches 
on  the  long  pole,  Li  Tee  with  a  string  of 
copper  "cash"  he  always  kept  with  him. 
The  eventful  day  came  at  last,  —  a  warm 
autumn  day,  patched  with  inland  fog  like 
blue  smoke  and  smooth,  tranquil,  open  sur 
faces  of  wood  and  sea ;  but  to  their  waiting, 
confident  eyes  the  boy  came  not  out  of  either. 
They  kept  a  stolid  silence  all  that  day  until 
night  fell,  when  Jim  said,  "Mebbe  Boston 
boy  go  dead."  Li  Tee  nodded.  It  did  not 
seem  possible  to  these  two  heathens  that 
anything  else  could  prevent  the  Christian 
child  from  keeping  his  word. 

After  that,  by  the  aid  of  the  canoe,  they 
went  much  on  the  marsh,  hunting  apart, 
but  often  meeting  on  the  trail  which  Bob 
had  taken,  with  grunts  of  mutual  surprise. 
These  suppressed  feelings,  never  made 
known  by  word  or  gesture,  at  last  must 
have  found  vicarious  outlet  in  the  taciturn 
dog,  who  so  far  forgot  his  usual  discretion 


228      THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD 

as  to  once  or  twice  seat  himself  on  the 
water's  edge  and  indulge  in  a  fit  of  howl 
ing.  It  had  been  a  custom  of  Jim's  on 
certain  days  to  retire  to  some  secluded 
place,  where,  folded  in  his  blanket,  with 
his  back  against  a  tree,  he  remained  motion 
less  for  hours.  In  the  settlement  this  had 
been  usually  referred  to  the  after  effects  of 
drink,  known  as  the  "horrors,"  but  Jim 
had  explained  it  by  saying  it  was  "when 
his  heart  was  bad."  And  now  it  seemed, 
by  these  gloomy  abstractions,  that  "his 
heart  was  bad  "  very  often.  And  then  the 
long  withheld  rains  came  one  night  on  the 
wings  of  a  fierce  southwester,  beating  down 
their  frail  lodge  and  scattering  it  abroad, 
quenching  their  camp-fire,  and  rolling  up 
the  bay  until  it  invaded  their  reedy  island 
and  hissed  in  their  ears.  It  drove  the  game 
from  Jim's  gun;  it  tore  the  net  and  scat 
tered  the  bait  of  Li  Tee,  the  fisherman. 
Cold  and  half  starved  in  heart  and  body, 
but  more  dogged  and  silent  than  ever,  they 
crept  out  in  their  canoe  into  the  storm- 
tossed  bay,  barely  escaping  with  their  mis 
erable  lives  to  the  marshy  peninsula.  Here, 
on  their  enemy's  ground,  skulking  in  the 
rushes,  or  lying  close  behind  tussocks,  they 


THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD      229 

at  last  reached  the  fringe  of  forest  below 
the  settlement.  Here,  too,  sorely  pressed 
by  hunger,  and  doggedly  reckless  of  conse 
quences,  they  forgot  their  caution,  and  a 
flight  of  teal  fell  to  Jim's  gun  on  the  very 
outskirts  of  the  settlement. 

It  was  a  fatal  shot,  whose  echoes  awoke 
the  forces  of  civilization  against  them.  For 
it  was  heard  by  a  logger  in  his  hut  near  the 
marsh,  who,  looking  out,  had  seen  Jim 
pass.  A  careless,  good-natured  frontiers 
man,  he  might  have  kept  the  outcasts'  mere 
presence  to  himself;  but  there  was  that 
damning  shot!  An  Indian  with  a  gun! 
That  weapon,  contraband  of  law,  with  dire 
fines  and  penalties  to  whoso  sold  or  gave  it 
to  him !  A  thing  to  be  looked  into  —  some 
one  to  be  punished!  An  Indian  with  a 
weapon  that  made  him  the  equal  of  the 
white!  Who  was  safe?  He  hurried  to 
town  to  lay  his  information  before  the  con 
stable,  but,  meeting  Mr.  Skinner,  imparted 
the  news  to  him.  The  latter  pooh-poohed 
the  constable,  who  he  alleged  had  not  yet 
discovered  the  whereabouts  of  Jim,  and 
suggested  that  a  few  armed  citizens  should 
make  the  chase  themselves.  The  fact  was 
that  Mr.  Skinner,  never  quite  satisfied  in 


230      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

his  mind  with  his  son's  account  of  the  loss  of 
the  gun,  had  put  two  and  two  together,  and 
was  by  no  means  inclined  to  have  his  own 
gun  possibly  identified  by  the  legal  author 
ity.  Moreover,  he  went  home  and  at  once 
attacked  Master  Bob  with  such  vigor  and 
so  highly  colored  a  description  of  the  crime 
he  had  committed,  and  the  penalties  at 
tached  to  it,  that  Bob  confessed.  More 
than  that,  I  grieve  to  say  that  Bob  lied. 
The  Indian  had  "stoled  his  gun,"  and 
threatened  his  life  if  he  divulged  the  theft. 
He  told  how  he  was  ruthlessly  put  ashore, 
and  compelled  to  take  a  trail  only  known  to 
them  to  reach  his  home.  In  two  hours  it 
was  reported  throughout  the  settlement  that 
the  infamous  Jim  had  added  robbery  with 
violence  to  his  illegal  possession  of  the 
weapon.  The  secret  of  the  island  and  the 
trail  over  the  marsh  was  told  only  to  a  few. 
Meantime  it  had  fared  hard  with  the 
fugitives.  Their  nearness  to  the  settlement 
prevented  them  from  lighting  a  fire,  which 
might  have  revealed  their  hiding-place,  and 
they  crept  together,  shivering  all*  night  in 
a  clump  of  hazel.  Scared  thence  by  passing 
but  unsuspecting  wayfarers  wandering  off 
the  trail,  they  lay  part  of  the  next  day  and 


THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD      231 

night  amid  some  tussocks  of  salt  grass, 
blown  on  by  the  cold  sea-breeze;  chilled, 
but  securely  hidden  from  sight.  Indeed, 
thanks  to  some  mysterious  power  they  had 
of  utter  immobility,  it  was  wonderful  how 
they  could  efface  themselves,  through  quiet 
and  the  simplest  environment.  The  lee 
side  of  a  straggling  vine  in  the  meadow,  or 
even  the  thin  ridge  of  cast-up  drift  on  the 
shore,  behind  which  they  would  lie  for  hours 
motionless,  was  a  sufficient  barrier  against 
prying  eyes.  In  this  occupation  they  no 
longer  talked  together,  but  followed  each 
other  with  the  blind  instinct  of  animals  — 
yet  always  unerringly,  as  if  conscious  of 
each  other's  plans.  Strangely  enough,  it 
was  the  real  animal  alone  —  their  nameless 
dog  —  who  now  betrayed  impatience  and  a 
certain  human  infirmity  of  temper.  The 
concealment  they  were  resigned  to,  the  suf 
ferings  they  mutely  accepted,  he  alone  re 
sented!  When  certain  scents  or  sounds, 
imperceptible  to  their  senses,  were  blown 
across  their  path,  he  would,  with  bristling 
back,  snarl  himself  into  guttural  and  stran 
gulated  fury.  Yet,  in  their  apathy,  even 
this  would  have  passed  them  unnoticed,  but 
that  on  the  second  night  he  disappeared 


232      THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

suddenly,  returning  after  two  hours'  ab 
sence  with  bloody  jaws  —  replete,  but  still 
slinking  and  snappish.  It  was  only  in  the 
morning  that,  creeping  on  their  hands  and 
knees  through  the  stubble,  they  came  upon 
the  torn  and  mangled  carcass  of  a  sheep. 
The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  without 
speaking  —  they  knew  what  this  act  of 
rapine  meant  to  themselves.  It  meant  a 
fresh  hue  and  cry  after  them  —  it  meant 
that  their  starving  companion  had  helped 
to  draw  the  net  closer  round  them.  The 
Indian  grunted,  Li  Tee  smiled  vacantly; 
but  with  their  knives  and  fingers  they  fin 
ished  what  the  dog  had  begun,  and  became 
equally  culpable.  But  that  they  were  hea 
thens,  they  could  not  have  achieved  a  deli 
cate  ethical  responsibility  in  a  more  Chris 
tian-like  way. 

Yet  the  rice-fed  Li  Tee  suffered  most  in 
their  privations.  His  habitual  apathy  in 
creased  with  a  certain  physical  lethargy 
which  Jim  could  not  understand.  When 
they  were  apart  he  sometimes  found  Li  Tee 
stretched  on  his  back  with  an  odd  stare  in 
his  eyes,  and  once,  at  a  distance,  he  thought 
he  saw  a  vague  thin  vapor  drift  from  where 
the  Chinese  boy  was  lying  and  vanish  as  he 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      233 

approached.  When  he  tried  to  arouse  him 
there  was  a  weak  drawl  in  his  voice  and  a 
drug-like  odor  in  his  breath.  Jim  dragged 
him  to  a  more  substantial  shelter,  a  thicket 
of  alder.  It  was  dangerously  near  the  fre 
quented  road,  but  a  vague  idea  had  sprung 
up  in  Jim's  now  troubled  mind  that,  equal 
vagabonds  though  they  were,  Li  Tee  had 
more  claims  upon  civilization,  through  those 
of  his  own  race  who  were  permitted  to  live 
among  the  white  men,  and  were  not  hunted 
to  "reservations"  and  confined  there  like 
Jim's  people.  If  Li  Tee  was  "heap  sick," 
other  Chinamen  might  find  and  nurse  him. 
As  for  Li  Tee,  he  had  lately  said,  in  a 
more  lucid  interval:  "Me  go  dead  —  allee 
samee  Mellikan  boy.  You  go  dead  too  — 
allee  samee,"  and  then  lay  down  again  with 
a  glassy  stare  in  his  eyes.  Far  from  being 
frightened  at  this,  Jim  attributed  his  con 
dition  to  some  enchantment  that  Li  Tee 
had  evoked  from  one  of  his  gods  —  just  as 
he  himself  had  seen  "medicine-men"  of  his 
own  tribe  fall  into  strange  trances,  and  was 
glad  that  the  boy  no  longer  suffered.  The 
day  advanced,  and  Li  Tee  still  slept.  Jim 
could  hear  the  church  bells  ringing;  he 
knew  it  was  Sunday  —  the  day  on  which  he 


234      THREE    VAGABONDS   OF   TRINIDAD 

was  hustled  from  the  main  street  by  the 
constable;  the  day  on  which  the  shops  were 
closed,  and  the  drinking  saloons  open  only 
at  the  back  door.  The  day  whereon  no 
man  worked  —  and  for  that  reason,  though 
he  knew  it  not,  the  day  selected  by  the  in 
genious  Mr.  Skinner  and  a  few  friends  as 
especially  fitting  and  convenient  for  a  chase 
of  the  fugitives.  The  bell  brought  no  sug 
gestion  of  this  —  though  the  dog  snapped 
under  his  breath  and  stiffened  his  spine. 
And  then  he  heard  another  sound,  far  off 
and  vague,  yet  one  that  brought  a  flash  into 
his  murky  eye,  that  lit  up  the  heaviness  of 
his  Hebraic  face,  and  even  showed  a  slight 
color  in  his  high  cheek-bones.  He  lay  down 
on  the  ground,  and  listened  with  suspended 
breath.  He  heard  it  now  distinctly.  It 
was  the  Boston  boy  calling,  and  the  word 
he  was  calling  was  "  Jim." 

Then  the  fire  dropped  out  of  his  eyes  as 
he  turned  with  his  usual  stolidity  to  where 
Li  Tee  was  lying.  Him  he  shook,  saying 
briefly:  "Boston  boy  come  back!"  But 
there  was  no  reply,  the  dead  body  rolled 
over  inertly  under  his  hand ;  the  head  fell 
back,  and  the  jaw  dropped  under  the 
pinched  yellow  face.  The  Indian  gazed  at 


THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD      235 

him  slowly,  and  then  gravely  turned  again 
in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  Yet  his  dull 
mind  was  perplexed,  for,  blended  with  that 
voice  were  other  sounds  like  the  tread  of 
clumsily  stealthy  feet.  But  again  the  voice 
called  "Jim! "  and  raising  his  hands  to  his 
lips  he  gave  a  low  whoop  in  reply.  This 
was  followed  by  silence,  when  suddenly  he 
heard  the  voice  —  the  boy's  voice  —  once 
again,  this  time  very  near  him,  saying 
eagerly :  — 

"There  he  is!" 

Then  the  Indian  knew  all.  His  face, 
however,  did  not  change  as  he  took  up  his 
gun,  and  a  man  stepped  out  of  the  thicket 
into  the  trail :  — 

"Drop  that  gun,  you  d — d  Injin." 

The  Indian  did  not  move. 

"Drop  it,  I  say!" 

The  Indian  remained  erect  and  motion 
less. 

A  rifle  shot  broke  from  the  thicket.  At 
first  it  seemed  to  have  missed  the  Indian, 
and  the  man  who  had  spoken  cocked  his 
own  rifle.  But  the  next  moment  the  tall 
figure  of  Jim  collapsed  where  he  stood  into 
a  mere  blanketed  heap. 

The  man  who  had  fired  the  shot  walked 


236       THREE    VAGABONDS    OF   TRINIDAD 

towards  the  heap  with  the  easy  air  of  a  con 
queror.  But  suddenly  there  arose  before 
him  an  awful  phantom,  the  incarnation  of 
savagery  —  a  creature  of  blazing  eyeballs, 
flashing  tasks,  and  hot  carnivorous  breath. 
He  had  barely  time  to  cry  out  "A  wolf!" 
before  its  jaws  met  in  his  throat,  and  they 
rolled  together  on  the  ground. 

But  it  was  no  wolf  —  as  a  second  shot 
proved  —  only  Jim's  slinking  dog;  the  only- 
one  of  the  outcasts  who  at  that  supreme 
moment  had  gone  back  to  his  original 
nature. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN 

MR.  JACKSON  POTTER  halted  before  the 
little  cottage,  half  shop,  half  hostelry,  op 
posite  the  great  gates  of  Domesday  Park, 
where  tickets  of  admission  to  that  venerable 
domain  were  sold.  Here  Mr.  Potter  re 
vealed  his  nationality  as  a  Western  Ameri 
can,  not  only  in  his  accent,  but  in  a  certain 
half-humorous,  half-practical  questioning 
of  the  ticket-seller  —  as  that  quasi-official 
stamped  his  ticket  —  which  was  neverthe 
less  delivered  with  such  unfailing  good- 
humor,  and  such  frank  suggestiveness  of 
the  perfect  equality  of  the  ticket-seller  and 
the  well-dressed  stranger  that,  far  from 
producing  any  irritation,  it  attracted  the 
pleased  attention  not  only  of  the  official, 
but  his  wife  and  daughter  and  a  customer. 
Possibly  the  good  looks  of  the  stranger  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  Jackson  Potter 
was  a  singularly  handsome  young  fellow, 
with  one  of  those  ideal  faces  and  figures 
sometimes  seen  in  Western  frontier  villages, 
attributable  to  no  ancestor,  but  evolved 


238        A    VISION  OF   THE  FOUNTAIN 

possibly  from  novels  and  books  devoured 
by  ancestresses  in  the  long  solitary  winter 
evenings  of  their  lonely  cabins  on  the  fron 
tier.  A  beardless,  classical  head,  covered 
by  short  flocculent  blonde  curls,  poised  on 
a  shapely  neck  and  shoulders,  was  more 
Greek  in  outline  than  suggestive  of  any 
ordinary  American  type.  Finally,  after 
having  thoroughly  amused  his  small  au 
dience,  he  lifted  his  straw  hat  to  the  "la 
dies,"  and  lounged  out  across  the  road  to 
the  gateway.  Here  he  paused,  consulting 
his  guide-book,  and  read  aloud:  "St.  John's 
Gateway.  This  massive  structure,  accord 
ing  to  Leland,  was  built  in  "  —  murmured 
—  "never  mind  when;  we  '11  pass  St.  John," 
marked  the  page  with  his  pencil,  and  ten 
dering  his  ticket  to  the  gate-keeper,  heard, 
with  some  satisfaction,  that,  as  there  were 
no  other  visitors  just  then,  and  as  the  cice 
rone  only  accompanied  parties,  he  would  be 
left  to  himself,  and  at  once  plunged  into  a 
by-path. 

It  was  that  loveliest  of  rare  creations  — 
a  hot  summer  day  in  England,  with  all  the 
dampness  of  that  sea-blown  isle  wrung  out 
of  it,  exhaled  in  the  quivering  blue  vault 
overhead,  or  passing  as  dim  wraiths  in  the 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN       239 

distant  wood,  and  all  the  long-matured 
growth  of  that  great  old  garden  vivified 
and  made  resplendent  by  the  fervid  sun. 
The  ashes  of  dead  and  gone  harvests,  even 
the  dust  of  those  who  had  for  ages  wrought 
in  it,  turned  again  and  again  through  inces 
sant  cultivation,  seemed  to  move  and  live 
once  more  in  that  present  sunshine.  All 
color  appeared  to  be  deepened  and  mel 
lowed,  until  even  the  very  shadows  of  the 
trees  were  as  velvety  as  the  sward  they  fell 
upon.  The  prairie-bred  Potter,  accustomed 
to  the  youthful  caprices  and  extravagances 
of  his  own  virgin  soil,  could  not  help  feel 
ing  the  influence  of  the  ripe  restraints  of 
this. 

As  he  glanced  through  the  leaves  across 
green  sunlit  spaces  to  the  ivy-clad  ruins  of 
Domesday  Abbey,  which  seemed  itself  a 
growth  of  the  very  soil,  he  murmured  to 
himself:  "Things  had  been  made  mighty 
comfortable  for  folks  here,  you  bet!  "  For 
gotten  books  he  had  read  as  a  boy,  scraps 
of  school  histories,  or  rarer  novels,  came 
back  to  him  as  he  walked  along,  and  peo 
pled  the  solitude  about  him  with  their 
heroes. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  unmistakably  hot  — 


240        A    VISION   OF   THE  FOUNTAIN 

a  heat  homelike  in  its  intensity,  yet  of  a 
different  effect,  throwing  him  into  languid 
reverie  rather  than  filling  his  veins  with 
fire.  Secure  in  his  seclusion  in  the  leafy 
chase,  he  took  off  his  jacket  and  rambled 
on  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  Through  the  open 
ing  he  presently  saw  the  abbey  again,  with 
the  restored  wing  where  the  noble  owner 
lived  for  two  or  three  weeks  in  the  year, 
but  now  given  over  to  the  prevailing  soli 
tude.  And  then,  issuing  from  the  chase, 
he  came  upon  a  broad,  moss-grown  terrace. 
Before  him  stretched  a  tangled  and  luxu 
riant  wilderness  of  shrubs  and  flowers, 
darkened  by  cypress  and  cedars  of  Leb 
anon;  its  dim  depths  illuminated  by  daz 
zling  white  statues,  vases,  trellises,  and 
paved  paths,  choked  and  lost  in  the  trailing 
growths  of  years  of  abandonment  and  for- 
getfulness.  He  consulted  his  guide-book 
again.  It  was  the  "old  Italian  garden," 
constructed  under  the  design  of  a  famous 
Italian  gardener  by  the  third  duke ;  but  its 
studied  formality  being  displeasing  to  his 
successor,  it  was  allowed  to  fall  into  pictur 
esque  decay  and  negligent  profusion,  which 
were  not,  however,  disturbed  by  later  de 
scendants,  —  a  fact  deplored  by  the  artistic 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN        241 

writer  of  the  guide-book,  who  mournfully 
called  attention  to  the  rare  beauty  of  the 
marble  statues,  urns,  and  fountains,  ruined 
by  neglect,  although  one  or  two  of  the  rarer 
objects  had  been  removed  to  Deep  Dene 
Lodge,  another  seat  of  the  present  duke. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Mr.  Potter  con 
ceived  at  once  a  humorous  opposition  to  the 
artistic  enthusiasm  of  the  critic,  and,  plun 
ging  into  the  garden,  took  a  mischievous 
delight  in  its  wildness  and  the  victorious 
struggle  of  nature  with  the  formality  of  art. 
At  every  step  through  the  tangled  labyrinth 
he  could  see  where  precision  and  order  had 
been  invaded,  and  even  the  rigid  masonry 
broken  or  upheaved  by  the  rebellious  force. 
Yet  here  and  there  the  two  powers  had  com 
bined  to  offer  an  example  of  beauty  neither 
could  have  effected  alone.  A  passion  vine 
had  overrun  and  enclasped  a  vase  with  a 
perfect  symmetry  no  sculptor  could  have 
achieved.  A  heavy  balustrade  was  made 
ethereal  with  a  delicate  fretwork  of  vegeta 
tion  between  its  balusters  like  lace.  Here, 
however,  the  lap  and  gurgle  of  water  fell 
gratefully  upon  the  ear  of  the  perspiring 
and  thirsty  Mr.  Potter,  and  turned  his  at 
tention  to  more  material  things.  Following 


242        A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN 

the  sound,  he  presently  came  upon  an  enor 
mous  oblong  marble  basin  containing  three 
time-worn  fountains  with  grouped  figures. 
The  pipes  were  empty,  silent,  and  choked 
with  reeds  and  water  plants,  but  the  great 
basin  itself  was  filled  with  water  from  some 
invisible  source. 

A  terraced  walk  occupied  one  side  of  the 
long  parallelogram;  at  intervals  and  along 
the  opposite  bank,  half  shadowed  by  wil 
lows,  tinted  marble  figures  of  tritons,  fauns, 
and  dryads  arose  half  hidden  in  the  reeds. 
They  were  more  or  less  mutilated  by  time, 
and  here  and  there  only  the  empty,  moss- 
covered  plinths  that  had  once  supported 
them  could  be  seen.  But  they  were  so  life 
like  in  their  subdued  color  in  the  shade  that 
he  was  for  a  moment  startled. 

The  water  looked  deliciously  cool.  An 
audacious  thought  struck  him.  He  was 
alone,  and  the  place  was  a  secluded  one. 
He  knew  there  were  no  other  visitors;  the 
marble  basin  was  quite  hidden  from  the  rest 
of  the  garden,  and  approached  only  from 
the  path  by  which  he  had -come,  and  whose 
entire  view  he  commanded.  He  quietly 
and  deliberately  undressed  himself  under 
the  willows,  and  unhesitatingly  plunged  intc 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN        243 

the  basin.  The  water  was  four  or  five  feet 
deep,  and  its  extreme  length  afforded  an 
excellent  swimming  bath,  despite  the  water- 
lilies  and  a  few  aquatic  plants  that  mottled 
its  clear  surface,  or  the  sedge  that  clung  to 
the  bases  of  the  statues.  He  disported  for 
some  moments  in  the  delicious  element,  and 
then  seated  himself  upon  one  of  the  half- 
submerged  plinths,  almost  hidden  by  reeds, 
that  had  once  upheld  a  river  god.  Here, 
lazily  resting  himself  upon  his  elbow,  half 
his  body  still  below  the  water,  his  quick  ear 
was  suddenly  startled  by  a  rustling  noise 
and  the  sound  of  footsteps.  For  a  moment 
he  was  inclined  to  doubt  his  senses;  he 
could  see  only  the  empty  path  before  him 
and  the  deserted  terrace.  But  the  sound 
became  more  distinct,  and  to  his  great  un 
easiness  appeared  to  come  from  the  other 
side  of  the  fringe  of  willows,  where  there 
was  undoubtedly  a  path  to  the  fountain 
which  he  had  overlooked.  His  clothes  were 
under  those  willows,  but  he  was  at  least 
twenty  yards  from  the  bank  and  an  equal 
distance  from  the  terrace.  He  was  about 
to  slip  beneath  the  water  when,  to  his 
crowning  horror,  before  he  could  do  so,  a 
young  girl  slowly  appeared  from  the  hidden 


244         A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN 

willow  path  full  upon  the  terrace.  She  was 
walking  leisurely  with  a  parasol  over  her 
head  and  a  book  in  her  hand.  Even  in  his 
intense  consternation  her  whole  figure  —  a 

O 

charming  one  in  its  white  dress,  sailor  hat, 
and  tan  shoes  —  was  imprinted  on  his  mem 
ory  as  she  instinctively  halted  to  look  upon 
the  fountain,  evidently  an  unexpected  sur 
prise  to  her. 

A  sudden  idea  flashed  upon  him.  She 
was  at  least  sixty  yards  away ;  he  was  half 
hidden  in  the  reeds  and  well  in  the  long 

o 

shadows  of  the  willows.  If  he  remained 
perfectly  motionless  she  might  overlook  him 
at  that  distance,  or  take  him  for  one  of  the 
statues.  He  remembered  also  that  as  he 
was  resting  on  his  elbow,  his  half -submerged 
body  lying  on  the  plinth  below  water,  he 
was  somewhat  in  the  attitude  of  one  of 
the  river  gods.  And  there  was  no  other 
escape.  If  he  dived  he  might  not  be  able 
to  keep  under  water  as  long  as  she  re 
mained,  and  any  movement  he  knew  would 
betray  him.  He  stiffened  himself  and 
scarcely  breathed.  Luckily  for  him  his 
attitude  had  been  a  natural  one  and  easy 
to  keep.  It  was  well,  too,  for  she  was 
evidently  in  no  hurry  and  walked  slowly, 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN        245 

stopping  from  time  to  time  to  admire  the 
basin  and  its  figures.  Suddenly  he  was  in 
stinctively  aware  that  she  was  looking  to 
wards  him  and  even  changing  her  position, 
moving  her  pretty  head  and  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand  as  if  for  a  better  view. 
He  remained  motionless,  scarcely  daring  to 
breathe.  Yet  there  was  something  so  in 
nocently  frank  and  undisturbed  in  her  ob 
servation,  that  he  knew  as  instinctively  that 
she  suspected  nothing,  and  took  him  for  a 
half -submerged  statue.  He  breathed  more 
freely.  But  presently  she  stopped,  glanced 
around  her,  and,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  in 
his  direction,  began  to  walk  backwards 
slowly  until  she  reached  a  stone  balustrade 
behind  her.  On  this  she  leaped,  and,  sit 
ting  down,  opened  in  her  lap  the  sketch 
book  she  was  carrying,  and,  taking  out  a 
pencil,  to  his  horror  began  to  sketch ! 

For  a  wild  moment  he  recurred  to  his 
first  idea  of  diving  and  swimming  at  all 
hazards  to  the  bank,  but  the  conviction  that 
now  his  slightest  movement  must  be  de 
tected  held  him  motionless.  He  must  save 
her  the  mortification  of  knowing  she  was 
sketching  a  living  man,  if  he  died  for  it. 
She  sketched  rapidly  but  fixedly  and  ab- 


246        A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN 

sorbedly,  evidently  forgetting  all  else  in 
her  work.  From  time  to  time  she  held  out 
her  sketch  before  her  to  compare  it  with 
her  subject.  Yet  the  seconds  seemed  min 
utes  and  the  minutes  hours.  Suddenly,  to 
his  great  relief,  a  distant  voice  was  heard 
calling  "Lottie."  It  was  a  woman's  voice; 
by  its  accent  it  also  seemed  to  him  an 
American  one. 

The  young  girl  made  a  slight  movement 
of  impatience,  but  did  not  look  up,  and  her 
pencil  moved  still  more  rapidly.  Again 
the  voice  called,  this  time  nearer.  The 
young  girl's  pencil  fairly  flew  over  the 
paper,  as,  still  without  looking  up,  she 
lifted  a  pretty  voice  and  answered  back, 
"Y-e-e-s!" 

It  struck  him  that  her  accent  was  also 
that  of  a  compatriot. 

"Where  on  earth  are  you?"  continued 
the  first  voice,  which  now  appeared  to  come 
from  the  other  side  of  the  willows  on  the 
path  by  which  the  young  girl  had  ap 
proached.  "Here,  aunty,"  replied  the  girl, 
closing  her  sketch-book  with  a  snap  and 
starting  to  her  feet. 

A  stout  woman,  fashionably  dressed,  made 
her  appearance  from  the  willow  path. 


A    VISION   OF   THE  FOUNTAIN       247 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
while?  "  she  said  querulously.  "Not  sketch 
ing,  I  hope,"  she  added,  with  a  suspicious 
glance  at  the  book.  "You  know  your  pro 
fessor  expressly  forbade  you  to  do  so  in 
your  holidays." 

The  young  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"I've  been  looking  at  the  fountains,"  she 
replied  evasively. 

"And  horrid  looking  pagan  things  they 
are,  too,"  said  the  elder  woman,  turning 
from  them  disgustedly,  without  vouchsafing 
a  second  glance.  "Come.  If  we  expect 
to  do  the  abbey,  we  must  hurry  up,  or  we 
won't  catch  the  train.  Your  uncle  is  wait 
ing  for  us  at  the  top  of  the  garden." 

And,  to  Potter's  intense  relief,  she 
grasped  the  young  girl's  arm  and  hurried 
her  away,  their  figures  the  next  moment 
vanishing  in  the  tangled  shrubbery. 

Potter  lost  no  time  in  plunging  with  his 
cramped  limbs  into  the  water  and  regaining 
the  other  side.  Here  he  quickly  half  dried 
himself  with  some  sun- warmed  leaves  and 
baked  mosses,  hurried  on  his  clothes,  and 
hastened  off  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the 
path  taken  by  them,  yet  with  such  circui 
tous  skill  and  speed  that  he  reached  the 


248         A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN 

great  gateway  without  encountering  any 
body.  A  brisk  walk  brought  him  to  the 
station  in  time  to  catch  a  stopping  train, 
and  in  half  an  hour  he  was  speeding  miles 
away  from  Domesday  Park  and  his  half- 
forgotten  episode. 

Meantime  the  two  ladies  continued  on 
their  way  to  the  abbey.  "I  don't  see  why 
I  mayn't  sketch  things  I  see  about  me," 
said  the  young  lady  impatiently.  "Of 
course,  I  understand  that  I  must  go  through 
the  rudimentary  drudgery  of  my  art  and 
study  from  casts,  and  learn  perspective,  and 
all  that;  but  I  can't  see  what 's  the  differ 
ence  between  working  in  a  stuffy  studio 
over  a  hand  or  arm  that  I  know  is  only  a 
study,  and  sketching  a  full  or  half  length 
in  the  open  air  with  the  wonderful  illusion 
of  light  and  shade  and  distance  —  and 
grouping  and  combining  them  all  —  that 
one  knows  and  feels  makes  a  picture.  The 
real  picture  one  makes  is  already  in  one's 
self." 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Lottie,  don't  go  on 
again  with  your  usual  absurdities.  Since 
you  are  bent  on  being  an  artist,  and  your 
Popper  has  consented  and  put  you  under 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN        249 

the  most  expensive  master  in  Paris,  the 
least  you  can  do  is  to  follow  the  rules. 
And  I  dare  say  he  only  wanted  you  to  '  sink 
the  shop  '  in  company.  It 's  such  horrid 
bad  form  for  you  artistic  people  to  be 
always  dragging  out  your  sketch-books. 
What  would  you  say  if  your  Popper  came 
over  here,  and  began  to  examine  every 
lady's  dress  in  society  to  see  what  material 
it  was,  just  because  he  was  a  big  dry-goods 
dealer  in  America?" 

The  young  girl,  accustomed  to  her  aunt's 
extravagances,  made  no  reply.  But  that 
night  she  consulted  her  sketch,  and  was  so 
far  convinced  of  her  own  instincts,  and  the 
profound  impression  the  fountain  had  made 
upon  her,  that  she  was  enabled  to  secretly 
finish  her  interrupted  sketch  from  memory. 
For  Miss  Charlotte  Forrest  was  a  born 
artist,  and  in  no  mere  caprice  had  persuaded 
her"  father  to  let  her  adopt  the  profession, 
and  accepted  the  drudgery  of  a  novitiate. 
She  looked  earnestly  upon  this  first  real 
work  of  her  hand  and  found  it  good !  Still, 
it  was  but  a  pencil  sketch,  and  wanted  the 
vivification  of  color. 

When  she  returned  to  Paris  she  began  — 
still  secretly  —  a  larger  study  in  oils.     She 


250        A    VISION   OF   THE  FOUNTAIN 

worked  upon  it  in  her  own  room  every  mo 
ment  she  could  spare  from  her  studio  prac 
tice,  unknown  to  her  professor.  It  ab 
sorbed  her  existence;  she  grew  thin  and 
pale.  When  it  was  finished,  and  only  then, 
she  showed  it  tremblingly  to  her  master. 
He  stood  silent,  in  profound  astonishment. 
The  easel  before  him  showed  a  foreground 
of  tangled  luxuriance,  from  which  stretched 
a  sheet  of  water  like  a  darkened  mirror, 
while  through  parted  reeds  on  its  glossy 
surface  arose  the  half -submerged  figure  of 
a  river  god,  exquisite  in  contour,  yet  whose 
delicate  outlines  were  almost  a  vision  by 
the  crowning  illusion  of  light,  shadow,  and 
atmosphere. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  copy,  mademoiselle, 
and  I  forgive  you  breaking  my  rules,"  he 
said,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "But  I  can 
not  now  recall  the  original  picture." 

"It's  no  copy  of  a  picture,  professor," 
said  the  young  girl  timidly,  and  she  dis 
closed  her  secret.  "It  was  the  only  perfect 
statue  there,"  she  added  diffidently;  "but 
I  think  it  wanted  —  something." 

"True,"  said  the  professor  abstractedly. 
"  Where  the  elbow  rests  there  should  be  a 
half-inverted  urn  flowing  with  water;  but 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN       251 

the  drawing  of  that  shoulder  is  so  perfect 
—  as  is  your  study  of  it  —  that  one  guesses 
the  missing  forearm  one  cannot  see,  which 
clasped  it.  Beautiful!  beautiful!" 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  turned  his  eyes 
almost  searchingly  on  hers. 

"You  say  you  have  never  drawn  from 
the  human  model,  mademoiselle?  " 

"Never,"  said  the  young  girl  innocent! y. 

"True,"  murmured  the  professor  again. 
"These  are  the  classic  ideal  measurements. 
There  are  no  limbs  like  those  now.  Yet  it 
is  wonderful!  And  this  gem,  you  say,  is 
in  England?" 

"Yes." 

"Good!  I  am  going  there  in  a  few  days. 
I  shall  make  a  pilgrimage  to  see  it.  Until 
then,  mademoiselle,  I  beg  you  to  break  as 
many  of  my  rules  as  you  like." 

Three  weeks  later  she  found  the  professor 
one  morning  standing  before  her  picture  in 
her  private  studio.  "You  have  returned 
from  England,"  she  said  joyfully. 

"I  have,"  said  the  professor  gravely. 

"You  have  seen  the  original  subject?" 
she  said  timidly. 

"I  have  not.  I  have  not  seen  it,  made 
moiselle,"  he  said,  gazing  at  her  mildly 


252        A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN 

through  his  glasses,  "  because  it  does  not 
exist,  and  never  existed." 

The  young  girl  turned  pale. 

"Listen.  I  have  go  to  England.  I  ar 
rive  at  the  Park  of  Domesday.  I  penetrate 
the  beautiful,  wild  garden.  I  approach  the 
fountain.  I  see  the  wonderful  water,  the 
exquisite  light  and  shade,  the  lilies,  the 
mysterious  reeds  —  beautiful,  yet  not  as 
beautiful  as  you  have  made  it,  mademoi 
selle,  but  no  statue  —  no  river  god !  I  de 
mand  it  of  the  concierge.  He  knows  of  it 
absolutely  nothing.  I  transport  myself  to 
the  noble  proprietor,  Monsieur  le  Due,  at 
a  distant  chateau  where  he  has  collected  the 
ruined  marbles.  It  is  not  there." 

"Yet  I  saw  it,"  said  the  young  girl  ear 
nestly,  yet  with  a  troubled  face.  "0  pro 
fessor,"  she  burst  out  appealingly,  "what 
do  you  think  it  was? " 

"I  think,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  pro 
fessor  gravely,  "that  you  created  it.  Be 
lieve  me,  it  is  a  function  of  genius !  More, 
it  is  a  proof,  a  necessity!  You  saw  the 
beautiful  lake,  the  ruined  fountain,  the  soft 
shadows,  the  empty  plinth,  curtained  by 
reeds.  You  yourself  say  you  feel  there  was 
1  something  wanting.'  Unconsciously  you 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN        253 

yourself  supplied  it.  All  that  you  had  ever 
dreamt  of  mythology,  all  that  you  had  ever 
seen  of  statuary,  thronged  upon  you  at  that 
supreme  moment,  and,  evolved  from  your 
own  fancy,  the  river  god  was  born.  It  is 
your  own,  chere  enfant,  as  much  the  off 
spring  of  your  genius  as  the  exquisite  atmo 
sphere  you  have  caught,  the  charm  of  light 
and  shadow  that  you  have  brought  away. 
Accept  my  felicitations.  You  have  little 
more  to  learn  of  me." 

As  he  bowed  himself  out  and  descended 
the  stairs  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 
"She  is  an  adorable  genius,"  he  murmured. 
"Yet  she  is  also  a  woman.  Being  a  wo 
man,  naturally  she  has  a  lover  —  this  river 
god!  Why  not?" 

The  extraordinary  success  of  Miss  For 
rest's  picture  and  the  instantaneous  recog 
nition  of  her  merit  as  an  artist,  apart  from 
her  novel  subject,  perhaps  went  further  to 
remove  her  uneasiness  than  any  serious  con 
viction  of  the  professor's  theory.  Never 
theless,  it  appealed  to  her  poetic  and  mystic 
imagination,  and  although  other  subjects 
from  her  brush  met  with  equally  phenome 
nal  success,  and  she  was  able  in  a  year  to 
return  to  America  with  a  reputation  assured 


254         A    VISION   OF   THE  FOUNTAIN 

beyond  criticism,  she  never  entirely  forgot 
the  strange  incident  connected  with  her  ini 
tial  effort. 

And  by  degrees  a  singular  change  came 
over  her.  Kich,  famous,  and  attractive, 
she  began  to  experience  a  sentimental  and 
romantic  interest  in  that  episode.  Once, 
when  reproached  by  her  friends  for  her  in 
difference  to  her  admirers,  she  had  half 
laughingly  replied  that  she  had  once  found 
her  " ideal,"  but  never  would  again.  Yet  the 
jest  had  scarcely  passed  her  lips  before  she 
became  pale  and  silent.  With  this  change 
came  also  a  desire  to  re-purchase  the  pic 
ture,  which  she  had  sold  in  her  early  suc 
cess  to  a  speculative  American  picture- 
dealer.  On  inquiry  she  found,  alas!  that 
it  had  been  sold  only  a  day  or  two  before 
to  a  Chicago  gentleman,  of  the  name  of 
Potter,  who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  it. 

Miss  Forrest  curled  her  pretty  lip,  but, 
nothing  daunted,  resolved  to  effect  her  pur 
pose,  and  sought  the  purchaser  at  his  hotel. 
She  was  ushered  into  a  private  drawing- 
room,  where,  on  a  handsome  easel,  stood 
the  newly  acquired  purchase.  Mr.  Potter 
was  out,  "but  would  return  in  a  moment." 

Miss  Forrest  was  relieved,  for,  alone  and 


A    VISION   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN        255 

undisturbed,  she  could  now  let  her  full  soul 
go  out  to  her  romantic  creation.  As  she 
stood  there,  she  felt  the  glamour  of  the  old 
English  garden  come  back  to  her,  the  play 
of  light  and  shadow,  the  silent  pool,  the 
godlike  face  and  bust,  with  its  cast-down, 
meditative  eyes,  seen  through  the  parted 
reeds.  She  clasped  her  hands  silently  be 
fore  her.  Should  she  never  see  it  again  as 
then? 

uPray  don't  let  me  disturb  you;  but 
won't  you  take  a  seat?" 

Miss  Forrest  turned  sharply  round. 
Then  she  started,  uttered  a  frightened  little 
cry,  and  fainted  away. 

Mr.  Potter  was  touched,  but  a  master  of 
himself.  As  she  came  to,  he  said  quietly: 
"  I  came  upon  you  suddenly  —  as  you  stood 
entranced  by  this  picture  —  just  as  I  did 
when  I  first  saw  it.  That 's  why  I  bought 
it.  Are  you  any  relative  of  the  Miss  For 
rest  who  painted  it?"  he  continued,  quietly 
looking  at  her  card,  which  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

Miss  Forrest  recovered  herself  sufficiently 
to  reply,  and  stated  her  business  with  some 
dignity. 

44 Ah,"  said  Mr.  Potter,  "that  is  another 


256        A    VISION  OF   THE  FOUNTAIN 

question.  You  see,  the  picture  has  a  special 
value  to  me,  as  I  once  saw  an  old-fashioned 
garden  like  that  in  England.  But  that 
chap  there,  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  mean 
that  figure,  —  I  fancy,  is  your  own  creation, 
entirely.  However,  I  '11  think  over  your 
proposition,  and  if  you  will  allow  me  I  '11 
call  and  see  you  about  it." 

Mr.  Potter  did  call  —  not  once,  but  many 
times  —  and  showed  quite  a  remarkable  in 
terest  in  Miss  Forrest's  art.  The  question 
of  the  sale  of  the  picture,  however,  remained 
in  abeyance.  A  few  weeks  later,  after  a 
longer  call  than  usual,  Mr.  Potter  said :  — 

"Don't  you  think  the  best  thing  we  can 
do  is  to  make  a  kind  of  compromise,  and 
let  us  own  the  picture  together?" 

And  they  did. 


A  KOMANCE  OF  THE  LINE 

As  the  train  moved  slowly  out  of  the 
station,  the  Writer  of  Stories  looked  up  wea 
rily  from  the  illustrated  pages  of  the  maga 
zines  and  weeklies  on  his  lap  to  the  illus 
trated  advertisements  on  the  walls  of  the 
station  sliding  past  his  carriage  windows. 
It  was  getting  to  be  monotonous.  For  a 
while  he  had  been  hopefully  interested  in 
the  bustle  of  the  departing  trains,  and  looked 
up  from  his  comfortable  and  early  invested 
position  to  the  later  comers  with  that  sense 
of  superiority  common  to  travelers;  had 
watched  the  conventional  leave-takings  — 
always  feebly  prolonged  to  the  uneasiness 
of  both  parties  —  and  contrasted  it  with  the 
impassive  business  promptitude  of  the  rail 
way  officials ;  but  it  was  the  old  experience 
repeated.  Falling  back  on  the  illustrated 
advertisements  again,  he  wondered  if  their 
perpetual  recurrence  at  every  station  would 
not  at  last  bring  to  the  tired  traveler  the 
loathing  of  satiety;  whether  the  passenger 
in  railway  carriages,  continually  offered 


258  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE 

Somebody's  oats,  inks,  washing  blue,  can 
dles,  and  soap,  apparently  as  a  necessary 
equipment  for  a  few  hours'  journey,  would 
not  there  and  thereafter  forever  ignore  the 
use  of  these  articles,  or  recoil  from  that 
particular  quality.  Or,  as  an  unbiased 
observer,  he  wondered  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  impressible  passengers,  after  passing 
three  or  four  stations,  had  ever  leaped  from 
the  train  and  refused  to  proceed  further 
until  they  were  supplied  with  one  or  more 
of  those  articles.  Had  he  ever  known  any 
one  who  confided  to  him  in  a  moment  of 
expansiveness  that  he  had  dated  his  use  of 
Somebody's  soap  to  an  advertisement  per 
sistently  borne  upon  him  through  the  me 
dium  of  a  railway  carriage  window?  No! 
Would  he  not  have  connected  that  man 
with  that  other  certifying  individual  who 
always  appends  a  name  and  address  singu 
larly  obscure  and  unconvincing,  yet  who,  at 
some  supreme  moment,  recommends  Some 
body's  pills  to  a  dying  friend,  —  afflicted 
with  a  similar  address,  —  which  restore  him 
to  life  and  undying  obscurity.  Yet  these 
pictorial  and  literary  appeals  must  have  a 
potency  independent  of  the  wares  they  ad 
vertise,  or  they  wouldn't  be  there. 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  259 

Perhaps  he  was  the  more  sensitive  to  this 
monotony  as  he  was  just  then  seeking 
change  and  novelty  in  order  to  write  a  new 
story.  He  was  not  looking  for  material,  — 
his  subjects  were  usually  the  same,  —  he 
was  merely  hoping  for  that  relaxation  and 
diversion  which  should  freshen  and  fit  him 
for  later  concentration.  Still,  he  had  often 
heard  of  the  odd  circumstances  to  which  his 
craft  were  sometimes  indebted  for  sugges 
tion.  The  invasion  of  an  eccentric-looking 
individual  —  probably  an  innocent  trades 
man —  into  a  railway  carriage  had  given 
the  hint  for  "A  Night  with  a  Lunatic;  "  a 
nervously  excited  and  belated  passenger  had 
once  unconsciously  sat  for  an  escaped 
forger ;  the  picking  up  of  a  forgotten  novel 
in  the  rack,  with  passages  marked  in  pencil, 
had  afforded  the  plot  of  a  love  story ;  or  the 
germ  of  a  romance  had  been  found  in  an 
obscure  news  paragraph  which,  under  less 
listless  moments,  would  have  passed  unread. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  recalled  these  in 
convenient  and  inconsistent  moments  from 
which  the  so-called  "inspiration"  sprang, 
the  utter  incongruity  of  time  and  place  in 
some  brilliant  conception,  and  wondered  if 
sheer  vacuity  of  mind  were  really  so  favor 
able. 


260  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

Going  back  to  his  magazine  again,  he 
began  to  get  mildly  interested  in  a  story. 
Turning  the  page,  however,  he  was  con 
fronted  by  a  pictorial  advertising  leaflet 
inserted  between  the  pages,  yet  so  artistic 
in  character  that  it  might  have  been  easily 
mistaken  for  an  illustration  of  the  story  he 
was  reading,  and  perhaps  was  not  more  re 
mote  or  obscure  in  reference  than  many  he 
had  known.  But  the  next  moment  he  re 
cognized  with  despair  that  it  was  only  a 
smaller  copy  of  one  he  had  seen  on  the 
hoarding  at  the  last  station.  He  threw  the 
leaflet  aside,  but  the  flavor  of  the  story  was 
gone.  The  peerless  detergent  of  the  adver 
tisement  had  erased  it  from  the  tablets  of 
his  memory.  He  leaned  back  in  his  seat 
again,  and  lazily  watched  the  flying  sub 
urbs.  Here  were  the  usual  promising 
open  spaces  and  patches  of  green,  quickly 
succeeded  again  by  solid  blocks  of  houses 
whose  rear  windows  gave  directly  upon  the 
line,  yet  seldom  showed  an  inquisitive  face 
—  even  of  a  wondering  child.  It  was  a 
strange  revelation  of  the  depressing  effects 
of  familiarity.  Expresses  might  thunder 
by,  goods  trains  drag  their  slow  length 
along,  shunting  trains  pipe  all  day  beneath 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  261 

their  windows,  but  the  tenants  heeded  them 
not.  Here,  too,  was  the  junction,  with  its 
labyrinthine  interlacing  of  tracks  that  dazed 
the  tired  brain ;  the  overburdened  telegraph 
posts,  that  looked  as  if  they  really  could 
not  stand  another  wire;  the  long  lines  of 
empty,  homeless,  and  deserted  trains  in 
sidings  that  had  seen  better  days;  the  idle 
trains,  with  staring  vacant  windows,  which 
were  eventually  seized  by  a  pert  engine  hiss 
ing,  "Come  along,  will  you? "  and  de 
parted  with  a  discontented  grunt  from  every 
individual  carriage  coupling  ;  the  racing 
trains,  that  suddenly  appeared  parallel  with 
one's  carriage  windows,  begot  false  hopes 
of  a  challenge  of  speed,  and  then,  without 
warning,  drew  contemptuously  and  super 
ciliously  away;  the  swift  eclipse  of  every 
thing  in  a  tunneled  bridge;  the  long,  slith 
ering  passage  of  an  "up  "  express,  and  then 
the  flash  of  a  station,  incoherent  and  un 
intelligible  with  pictorial  advertisements 
again. 

He  closed  his  eyes  to  concentrate  his 
thought,  and  by  degrees  a  pleasant  languor 
stole  over  him.  The  train  had  by  this  time 
attained  that  rate  of  speed  which  gave  it 
a  slight  swing  and .  roll  on  curves  and 


262  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

switches  not  unlike  the  rocking  of  a  cradle. 
Once  or  twice  he  opened  his  eyes  sleepily 
upon  the  waltzing  trees  in  the  double  planes 
of  distance,  and  again  closed  them.  Then, 
in  one  of  these  slight  oscillations,  he  felt 
himself  ridiculously  slipping  into  slumber, 
and  awoke  with  some  indignation.  An 
other  station  was  passed,  in  which  process 
the  pictorial  advertisements  on  the  hoard 
ings  and  the  pictures  in  his  lap  seemed  to 
have  become  jumbled  up,  confused,  and  to 
dance  before  him,  and  then  suddenly  and 
strangely,  without  warning,  the  train 
stopped  short  —  at  another  station.  And 
then  he  arose,  and  —  what  five  minutes  be 
fore  he  never  conceived  of  doing  —  gathered 
his  papers  and  slipped  from  the  carriage  to 
the  platform.  When  I  say  "he"  I  mean, 
of  course,  the  Writer  of  Stories;  yet  the 
man  who  slipped  out  was  half  his  age  and 
a  different-looking  person. 

The  change  from  the  motion  of  the  train 
—  for  it  seemed  that  he  had  been  traveling 
several  hours  —  to  the  firmer  platform  for 
a  moment  bewildered  him.  The  station 
looked  strange,  and  he  fancied  it  lacked  a 
certain  kind  of  distinctness.  But  that  qual- 


A    ROMANCE    OF    THE    LINE  263 

ity  was  also  noticeable  in  the  porters  and 
loungers  on  the  platform.  He  thought  it 
singular,  until  it  seemed  to  him  that  they 
were  not  characteristic,  nor  in  any  way  im 
portant  or  necessary  to  the  business  he  had 
in  hand.  Then,  with  an  effort,  he  tried  to 
remember  himself  and  his  purpose,  and 
made  his  way  through  the  station  to  the 
open  road  beyond.  A  van,  bearing  the  in 
scription,  "Removals  to  Town  and  Coun 
try,"  stood  before  him  and  blocked  his  way, 
but  a  dogcart  was  in  waiting,  and  a  griz 
zled  groom,  who  held  the  reins,  touched  his 
hat  respectfully.  Although  still  dazed  by 
his  journey  and  uncertain  of  himself,  he 
seemed  to  recognize  in  the  man  that  distinc 
tive  character  which  was  wanting  in  the 
others.  The  correctness  of  his  surmise  was 
revealed  a  few  moments  later,  when,  after 
he  had  taken  his  seat  beside  him,  and  they 
were  rattling  out  of  the  village  street,  the 
man  turned  towards  him  and  said :  — 
"Tha '11  know  Sir  Jarge?" 
"I  do  not,"  said  the  young  man. 
"Ay!  but  theer  's  many  as  cooms  here  as 
doan't,  for  all  they  cooms.  Tha  '11  say  it 
ill  becooms  mea  as  war  man  and  boy  in  Sir 
Jarge 's  sarvice  for  fifty  year,  to  say  owt 


264  A   ROMANCE-  OF   THE   LINE 

agen  him,  but  I  'm  here  to  do  it,  or  they 
couldn't  foolfil  their  business.  Tha  wast 
to  ax  me  questions  about  Sir  Jarge  and  the 
Grange,  and  I  wor  to  answer  soa  as  to  make 
tha  think  thar  was  suthing  wrong  wi'  un. 
Howbut  I  may  save  tha  time  and  tell  thea 
downroight  that  Sir  Jarge  forged  his  un 
cle's  will,  and  so  gotten  the  Grange.  That 
'ee  keeps  his  niece  in  mortal  fear  o'  he. 
That  tha  '11  be  put  in  haunted  chamber  wi' 
a  boggle." 

"I  think,"  said  the  young  man  hesitat 
ingly,  "that  there  must  be  some  mistake. 
I  do  not  know  any  Sir  George,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  the  Grange." 

"Eay!  Then  thee  aren't  the  'ero  sent 
down  from  London  by  the  story  writer?" 

"Not  by  that  one,"  said  the  young  man 
diffidently. 

The  old  man's  face  changed.  It  was  no 
mere  figure  of  speech:  it  actually  was  an 
other  face  that  looked  down  upon  the  trav 
eler. 

"Then  mayhap  your  honor  will  be  be 
spoken  at  the  Angel's  Inn,"  he  said,  with 
an  entirely  distinct  and  older  dialect,  "and 
a  finer  hostel  for  a  young  gentleman  of 
your  condition  ye  '11  not  find  on  this  side  of 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  265 

Oxford.  A  fair  chamber,  looking  to  the 
sun ;  sheets  smelling  of  lavender  from  Dame 
Margery's  own  store,  and,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  spread  by  the  fair  hands  of  Maud 
lin,  her  daughter  —  the  best  favored  lass 
that  ever  danced  under  a  Maypole.  Ha! 
have  at  ye  there,  young  sir !  Not  to  speak 
of  the  October  ale  of  old  Gregory,  her 
father  —  ay,  nor  the  rare  Hollands,  that 
never  paid  excise  duties  to  the  king." 

"I  'm  afraid,"  said  the  young  traveler 
timidly,  "there's  over  a  century  between 
us.  There  's  really  some  mistake." 

"What?"  said  the  groom,  "ye  are  not 
the  young  spark  who  is  to  marry  Mistress 
Amy  at  the  Hall,  yet  makes  a  pother  and 
mess  of  it  all  by  a  duel  with  Sir  Eoger  de 
Cadgerly,  the  wicked  baronet,  for  his  over- 
free  discourse  with  our  fair  Maudlin  this 
very  eve?  Ye  are  not  the  traveler  whose 
post-chaise  is  now  at  the  Falcon?  Ye  are 
not  he  that  was  bespoken  by  the  story 
writer  in  London?" 

"I  don't  think  I  am,"  said  the  young 
man  apologetically.  "Indeed,  as  I  am  feel 
ing  far  from  well,  I  think  I  '11  get  out  and 
walk." 

He  got  down  —  the   vehicle  and   driver 


266  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

vanished  in  the  distance.  It  did  not  sur 
prise  him.  "I  must  collect  my  thoughts," 
he  said.  He  did  so.  Possibly  the  collec 
tion  was  not  large,  for  presently  he  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief :  — 

"I  see  it  all  now!  My  name  is  Paul 
Bunker.  I  am  of  the  young  branch  of  an 
old  Quaker  family,  rich  and  respected  in 
the  country,  and  I  am  on  a  visit  to  my  an 
cestral  home.  But  I  have  lived  since  a 
child  in  America,  and  am  alien  to  the  tra 
ditions  and  customs  of  the  old  country,  and 
even  of  the  seat  to  which  my  fathers  belong. 
I  have  brought  with  me  from  the  far  West 
many  peculiarities  of  speech  and  thought 
that  may  startle  my  kinsfolk.  But  I  cer 
tainly  shall  not  address  my  uncle  as  '  Hoss ! ' 
nor  shall  I  say  '  guess  '  oftener  than  is 
necessary." 

Much  brightened  and  refreshed  by  his 
settled  identity,  he  had  time,  as  he  walked 
briskly  along,  to  notice  the  scenery,  which 
was  certainly  varied  and  conflicting  in  char 
acter,  and  quite  inconsistent  with  his  pre 
conceived  notions  of  an  English  landscape. 
On  his  right,  a  lake  of  the  brightest  cobalt 
blue  stretched  before  a  many-towered  and 
terraced  town,  which  was  relieved  by  a 


A  ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE  267 

background  of  luxuriant  foliage  and  emer 
ald-green  mountains;  on  his  left  arose  a 
rugged  mountain,  which  he  was  surprised 
to  see  was  snow-capped,  albeit  a  tunnel  was 
observable  midway  of  its  height,  and  a  train 
just  issuing  from  it.  Almost  regretting  that 
he  had  not  continued  on  his  journey,  as  he 
was  fully  sensible  that  it  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  the.  railway  he  had  quitted, 
presently  his  attention  was  directed  to  the 
gateway  of  a  handsome  park,  whose  man 
sion  was  faintly  seen  in  the  distance.  Hur 
rying  towards  him,  down  the  avenue  of 
limes,  was  a  strange  figure.  It  was  that  of 
a  man  of  middle  age,  clad  in  Quaker  garb, 
yet  with  an  extravagance  of  cut  and  detail 
which  seemed  antiquated  even  for  England. 
He  had  evidently  seen  the  young  man  ap 
proaching,  and  his  face  was  beaming  with 
welcome.  If  Paul  had  doubted  that  it  was 
his  uncle,  the  first  words  he  spoke  would 
have  reassured  him. 

"Welcome  to  Hawthorn  Hall,"  said  the 
figure,  grasping  his  hand  heartily,  "but 
thee  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  tarry  with 
thee  long  at  present,  for  I  am  hastening, 
even  now,  with  some  nourishing  and  sus 
taining  food  for  Giles  Hayward,  a  farm 


268  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

laborer."  He  pointed  to  a  package  he  was 
carrying.  "But  thee  will  find  thy  cousins 
Jane"  and  Dorcas  Bunker  taking  tea  in  the 
summer-house.  Go  to  them !  Nay  —  posi 
tively —  I  may  not  linger,  but  will  return 
to  thee  quickly."  And,  to  Paul's  astonish 
ment,  he  trotted  away  on  his  sturdy,  re 
spectable  legs,  still  beaming  and  carrying 
his  package  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  I'll  be  dog-goned!  but  the  old 
man  ain't  going  to  be  left,  you  bet!"  he 
ejaculated,  suddenly  remembering  his  dia 
lect.  "He'll  get  there,  whether  school 
keeps  or  not!"  Then,  reflecting  that  no 
one  heard  him,  he  added  simply,  "He  cer 
tainly  was  not  over  civil  towards  the  nephew 
he  has  never  seen  before.  And  those  girls 
—  whom  I  don't  know!  How  very  awk 
ward!" 

Nevertheless,  he  continued  his  way  up 
the  avenue  towards  the  mansion.  The  park 
was  beautifully  kept.  Remembering  the 
native  wildness  and  virgin  seclusion  of  the 
Western  forest,  he  could  not  help  contrast 
ing  it  with  the  conservative  gardening  of 
this  pretty  woodland,  every  rood  of  which 
had  been  patrolled  by  keepers  and  rangers, 
and  preserved  and  fostered  hundreds  of 


A  ROMANCE   OF  THE  LINE  269 

years  before  he  was  born,  until  warmed  for 
human  occupancy.  At  times  the  avenue 
was  crossed  by  grass  drives,  where  the  origi 
nal  woodland  had  been  displaced,  not  by 
the  exigency  of  a  "clearing"  for  tillage,  as 
in  his  own  West,  but  for  the  leisurely  plea 
sure  of  the  owner.  Then,  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  the  house  itself,  —  a  quaint  Jaco 
bean  mansion,  —  he  came  to  an  open  space 
where  the  sylvan  landscape  had  yielded  to 
floral  cultivation,  and  so  fell  upon  a  charm 
ing  summer-house,  or  arbor,  embowered 
with  roses.  It  must  have  been  the  one  of 
which  his  uncle  had  spoken,  for  there,  to 
his  wondering  admiration,  sat  two  little 
maids  before  a  rustic  table,  drinking  tea 
demurely,  yes,  with  all  the  evident  delight 
of  a  childish  escapade  from  their  elders. 
While  in  the  picturesque  quaintness  of  their 
attire  there  was  still  a  formal  suggestion  of 
the  sect  to  which  their  father  belonged, 
their  summer  frocks  —  differing  in  color, 
yet  each  of  the  same  subdued  tint  —  were 
alike  in  cut  and  fashion,  and  short  enough 
to  show  their  dainty  feet  in  prim  slippers 
and  silken  hose  that  matched  their  frocks. 
As  the  afternoon  sun  glanced  through  the 
leaves  upon  their  pink  cheeks,  tied  up  in 


270  A  ROMANCE   OF  THE  LINE 

quaint  hats  by  ribbons  under  their  chins, 
they  made  a  charming  picture.  At  least 
Paul  thought  so  as  he  advanced  towards 
them,  hat  in  hand.  They  looked  up  at  his 
approach,  but  again  cast  down  their  eyes 
with  demure  shyness;  yet  he  fancied  that 
they  first  exchanged  glances  with  each 
other,  full  of  mischievous  intelligence. 

"I  am  your  cousin  Paul,"  he  said  smil 
ingly,  "though  I  am  afraid  I  am  introdu 
cing  myself  almost  as  briefly  as  your  father 
just  now  excused  himself  to  me.  He  told 
me  I  would  find  you  here,  but  he  himself 
was  hastening  on  a  Samaritan  mission." 

"With  a  box  in  his  hand?  "  said  the  girls 
simultaneously,  exchanging  glances  with 
each  other  again. 

"With  a  box  containing  some  restorative, 
I  think,"  responded  Paul,  a  little  wonder  - 
ingly. 

" Kestorative !  So  that's  what  he  calls 
it  now,  is  it?"  said  one  of  the  girls  saucily. 
"Well,  no  one  knows  what's  in  the  box, 
though  he  always  carries  it  with  him.  Thee 
never  sees  him  without  it "  — 

"And  a  roll  of  paper,"  suggested  the 
other  girl. 

"Yes,  a  roll  of   paper  —  but  one  never 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  271 

knows  what  it  is!"  said  the  first  speaker. 
"It's  very  strange.  But  no  matter  now, 
Paul.  Welcome  to  Hawthorn  Hall.  I  am 
Jane  Bunker,  and  this  is  Dorcas."  She 
stopped,  and  then,  looking  down  demurely, 
added,  "Thee  may  kiss  us  both,  cousin 
Paul." 

The  young  man  did  not  wait  for  a  second 
invitation,  but  gently  touched  his  lips  to 
their  soft  young  cheeks. 

"Thee  does  not  speak  like  an  American, 
Paul.  Is  thee  really  and  truly  one?"  con 
tinued  Jane. 

Paul  remembered  that  he  had  forgotten 
his  dialect,  but  it  was  too  late  now. 

"I  am  really  and  truly  one,  and  your 
own  cousin,  and  I  hope  you  will  find  me 
a  very  dear  "  — 

"Oh!  "  said  Dorcas,  starting  up  primly. 
"You  must  really  allow  me  to  withdraw." 
To  the  young  man's  astonishment,  she 
seized  her  parasol,  and,  with  a  youthful 
affectation  of  dignity,  glided  from  the  sum 
mer-house  and  was  lost  among  the  trees. 

"Thy  declaration  to  me  was  rather  sud 
den,"  said  Jane  quietly,  in  answer  to  his 
look  of  surprise,  "and  Dorcas  is  peculiarly 
sensitive  and  less  like  the  '  world's  people  ' 


272  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

than  I  am.  And  it  was  just  a  little  cruel, 
considering  that  she  has  loved  thee  secretly 
all  these  years,  followed  thy  fortunes  in 
America  with  breathless  eagerness,  thrilled 
at  thy  narrow  escapes,  and  wept  at  thy 
privations." 

"But  she  has  never  seen  me  before!" 
said  the  astounded  Paul. 

"And  thee  had  never  seen  me  before, 
and  yet  thee  has  dared  to  propose  to  me 
five  minutes  after  thee  arrived,  and  in  her 
presence." 

"But,  my  dear  girl!  "  expostulated  Paul. 

"Stand  off!"  she  said,  rapidly  opening 
her  parasol  and  interposing  it  between 
them.  "Another  step  nearer  —  ay,  even 
another  word  of  endearment  —  and  I  shall 
be  compelled  —  nay,  forced,"  she  added  in 
a  lower  voice,  "to  remove  this  parasol,  lest 
it  should  be  crushed  and  ruined!  " 

"I  see,"  he  said  gloomily,  "you  have 
been  reading  novels;  but  so  have  I,  and 
the  same  ones!  Nevertheless,  I  intended 
only  to  tell  you  that  I  hoped  you  would 
always  find  me  a  kind  friend." 

She  shut  her  parasol  up  with  a  snap. 
"  And  I  only  intended  to  tell  thee  that  my 
heart  was  given  to  another." 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  273 

"You  intended  —  and  now ?  " 

"Is  it  the  '  kind  friend '  who  asks?" 

"If  it  were  not?" 

"Really?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah!" 

"Oh!" 

"But  thee  loves  another?  "  she  said,  toy 
ing  with  her  cup. 

He  attempted  to  toy  with  his,  but  broke 
it.  A  man  lacks  delicacy  in  this  kind  of 
persiflage.  "You  mean  I  am  loved  by  an 
other,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"You  dare  to  say  that!  "  she  said,  flash 
ing,  in  spite  of  her  prim  demeanor. 

"No,  but  you  did  just  now!  You  said 
your  sister  loved  me!  " 

"Did  I?"  she  said  dreamily.  "Dear! 
dear!  That 's  the  trouble  of  trying  to  talk 
like  Mr.  Blank's  delightful  dialogues.  One 
gets  so  mixed! " 

"Yet  you  will  be  a  sister  to  me?"  he 
said.  "'Tis  an  old  American  joke,  but 
'twill  serve." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 
"Had  thee  not  better  go  to  sister  Dor 
cas?     She  is  playing  with  the  cows,"  said 
Jane  plaintively. 


274  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE 

"You  forget,"  he  returned  gravely,  "that, 
on  page  27  of  the  novel  we  have  both  read, 
at  this  point  he  is  supposed  to  kiss  her." 

She  had  forgotten,  but  they  both  remem 
bered  in  time.  At  this  moment  a  scream 
came  faintly  from  the  distance.  They  both 
started,  and  rose. 

"It  is  sister  Dorcas,"  said  Jane,  sitting 
down  again  and  pouring  out  another  cup  of 
tea.  "I  have  always  told  her  that  one  of 
those  Swiss  cows  would  hook  her." 

Paul  stared  at  her  with  a  strange  revul 
sion  of  feeling.  "I  could  save  Dorcas,"  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "in  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  describe."  He  paused,  however, 
as  he  reflected  that  this  would  depend  en 
tirely  upon  the  methods  of  the  writer  of 
this  description.  "I  could  rescue  her!  I 
have  only  to  take  the  first  clothes-line  that 
I  find,  and  with  that  knowledge  and  skill 
with  the  lasso  which  I  learned  in  the  wilds 
of  America,  I  could  stop  the  charge  of  the 
most  furious  ruminant.  I  will!  "  and  with 
out  another  word  he  turned  and  rushed  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

He  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards  before 
he  paused,  a  little  bewildered.  To  the  left 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  275 

could  still  be  seen  the  cobalt  lake  with 
the  terraced  background;  to  the  right  the 
rugged  mountains.  He  chose  the  latter. 
Luckily  for  him  a  cottager's  garden  lay  in 
his  path,  and  from  a  line  supported  by  a 
single  pole  depended  the  homely  linen  of 
the  cottager.  To  tear  these  garments  from 
the  line  was  the  work  of  a  moment  (al 
though  it  represented  the  whole  week's 
washing),  and  hastily  coiling  the  rope  dex 
terously  in  his  hand,  he  sped  onward.  Al 
ready  panting  with  exertion  and  excitement, 
a  few  roods  farther  he  was  confronted  with 
a  spectacle  that  left  him  breathless. 

A  woman  —  young,  robust,  yet  gracefully 
formed  —  was  running  ahead  of  him,  driv 
ing  before  her  with  an  open  parasol  an  ani 
mal  which  he  instantly  recognized  as  one 
of  that  simple  yet  treacherous  species  most 
feared  by  the  sex  —  known  as  the  "Moo 
Cow." 

For  a  moment  he  was  appalled  by  the 
spectacle.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment! 
Eecalling  his  manhood  and  her  weakness, 
he  stopped,  and  bracing  his  foot  against  a 
stone,  with  a  graceful  flourish  of  his  lasso 
around  his  head,  threw  it  in  the  air.  It 
uncoiled  slowly,  sped  forward  with  unerr- 


276  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

ing  precision,  and  missed!  With  the  sin 
gle  cry  of  "Saved! "  the  fair  stranger  sank 
fainting  in  his  arms !  He  held  her  closely 
until  the  color  came  back  to  her  pale  face. 
Then  he  quietly  disentangled  the  lasso  from 
his  legs. 

"Where  am  I?"  she  said  faintly. 

"In  the  same  place,"  he  replied,  slowly 
but  firmly.  "But,"  he  added,  "you  have 
changed! " 

She  had,  indeed,  even  to  her  dress.  It 
was  now  of  a  vivid  brick  red,  and  so  much 
longer  in  the  skirt  that  it  seemed  to  make 
her  taller.  Only  her  hat  remained  the 
same. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  reflective  voice 
and  a  disregard  of  her  previous  dialect,  as 
she  gazed  up  in  his  eyes  with  an  eloquent 
lucidity,  "I  have  changed,  Paul!  I  feel 
myself  changing  at  those  words  you  uttered 
to  Jane.  There  are  moments  in  a  woman's 
life  that  man  knows  nothing  of;  moments 
bitter  and  cruel,  sweet  and  merciful,  that 
change  her  whole  being;  moments  in  which 
the  simple  girl  becomes  a  worldly  woman ; 
moments  in  which  the  slow  procession  of 
her  years  is  never  noted  —  except  by  an 
other  woman!  Moments  that  change  her 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE  277 

outlook  on  the  world  and  her  relations  to  it 
—  and  her  husband's  relations!  Moments 
when  the  maid  becomes  a  wife,  the  wife  a 
widow,  the  widow  a  re-married  woman,  by 
a  simple,  swift  illumination  of  the  fancy. 
Moments  when,  wrought  upon  by  a  single 
word  —  a  look  —  an  emphasis  and  rising 
inflection,  all  logical  sequence  is  cast  away, 
processes  are  lost  —  inductions  lead  no 
where.  Moments  when  the  inharmonious 
becomes  harmonious,  the  indiscreet  discreet, 
the  inefficient  efficient,  and  the  inevitable 
evitable.  I  mean,"  she  corrected  herself 
hurriedly  —  "You  know  what  I  mean!  If 
you  have  not  felt  it  you  have  read  it!  " 

"I  have,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "We 
have  both  read  it  in  the  same  novel.  She 
is  a  fine  writer." 

"Ye-e-s."  She  hesitated  with  that  slight 
resentment  of  praise  of  another  woman  so 
delightful  in  her  sex.  "But  you  have  for 
gotten  the  Moo  Cow ! "  and  she  pointed  to 
where  the  distracted  animal  was  careering 
across  the  lawn  towards  the  garden. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  "the  incident 
is  not  yet  closed.  Let  us  pursue  it." 

They  both  pursued  it.  Discarding  the 
useless  lasso,  he  had  recourse  to  a  few 


278  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE 

well-aimed  epithets.  The  infuriated  ani 
mal  swerved  and  made  directly  towards  a 
small  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  garden. 
In  attempting  to  clear  it,  it  fell  directly 
into  the  deep  cup-like  basin  and  remained 
helplessly  fixed,  with  its  fore-legs  projecting 
uneasily  beyond  the  rim. 

"Let  us  leave  it  there,"  she  said,  "and 
forget  it  —  and  all  that  has  gone  before. 
Believe  me,"  she  added,  with  a  faint  sigh, 
"it  is  best.  Our  paths  diverge  from  this 
moment.  I  go  to  the  summer-house,  and 
you  go  to  the  Hall,  where  my  father  is  ex 
pecting  you."  He  would  have  detained 
her  a  moment  longer,  but  she  glided  away 
and  was  gone. 

Left  to  himself  again,  that  slight  sense 
of  bewilderment  which  had  clouded  his  mind 
for  the  last  hour  began  to  clear  away;  his 
singular  encounter  with  the  girls  strangely 
enough  affected  him  less  strongly  than  his 
brief  and  unsatisfactory  interview  with  his 
uncle.  For,  after  all,  he  was  his  host,  and 
upon  him  depended  his  stay  at  Hawthorn 
Hall.  The  mysterious  and  slighting  allu 
sions  of  his  cousins  to  the  old  man's  eccen 
tricities  also  piqued  his  curiosity.  Why 
had  they  sneered  at  his  description  of  the 


A   ROMANCE 

contents  of  the  package  he  carried  —  and 
what  did  it  really  contain?  He  did  not 
reflect  that  it  was  none  of  his  business,  — 
people  in  his  situation  seldom  do,  —  and  he 
eagerly  hurried  towards  the  Hall.  But  he 
found  in  his  preoccupation  he  had  taken 
the  wrong  turning  in  the  path,  and  that  he 
was  now  close  to  the  wall  which  bounded 
and  overlooked  the  highway.  Here  a  sin 
gular  spectacle  presented  itself.  A  cyclist 
covered  with  dust  was  seated  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  trying  to  restore  circulation  to 
his  bruised  and  injured  leg  by  chafing  it 
with  his  hands,  while  beside  him  lay  his 
damaged  bicycle.  He  had  evidently  met 
with  an  accident.  In  an  instant  Paul  had 
climbed  the  wall  and  was  at  his  side. 

"Can  I  offer  you  any  assistance?"  he 
asked  eagerly. 

"Thanks  —  no!  I've  come  a  beastly 
cropper  over  something  or  other  on  this 
road,  and  I  'm  only  bruised,  though  the 
machine  has  suffered  worse,"  replied  the 
stranger,  in  a  fresh,  cheery  voice.  He  was 
a  good-looking  fellow  of  about  Paul's  own 
age,  and  the  young  American's  heart  went 
out  towards  him. 

"How  did  it  happen  ? "  asked  Paul. 


280  A  ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE 

"That's  what  puzzles  me,"  said  the 
stranger.  "I  was  getting  out  of  the  way 
of  a  queer  old  chap  in  the  road,  and  I  ran 
over  something  that  seemed  only  an  old 
scroll  of  paper;  but  the  shock  was  so  great 
that  I  was  thrown,  and  I  fancy  I  was  for 
a  few  moments  unconscious.  Yet  I  cannot 
see  any  other  obstruction  in  the  road,  and 
there  's  only  that  bit  of  paper."  He  pointed 
to  the  paper,  —  a  half -crushed  roll  of  ordi 
nary  foolscap,  showing  the  mark  of  the 
bicycle  upon  it. 

A  strange  idea  came  into  Paul's  mind. 
He  picked  up  the  paper  and  examined  it 
closely.  Besides  the  mark  already  indi 
cated,  it  showed  two  sharp  creases  about 
nine  inches  long,  and  another  exactly  at 
the  point  of  the  impact  of  the  bicycle. 
Taking  a  folded  two-foot  rule  from  his 
pocket,  he  carefully  measured  these  parallel 
creases  and  made  an  exhaustive  geometrical 
calculation  with  his  pencil  on  the  paper. 
The  stranger  watched  him  with  awed  and 
admiring  interest.  Rising,  he  again  care 
fully  examined  the  road,  and  was  finally 
rewarded  by  the  discovery  of  a  sharp  inden 
tation  in  the  dust,  which,  on  measurement 
and  comparison  with  the  creases  in  the 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  281 

paper  and  the  calculations  he  had  just 
made,  proved  to  be  identical. 

"There  was  a  solid  body  in  that  paper," 
said  Paul  quietly;  "a  parallelogram  exactly 
nine  inches  long  and  three  wide." 

"I  say!  you  're  wonderfully  clever,  don't 
you  know,"  said  the  stranger,  with  unaf 
fected  wonder.  "I  see  it  all  —  a  brick." 

Paul  smiled  gently  and  shook  his  head. 
"That  is  the  hasty  inference  of  an  inexpe 
rienced  observer.  You  will  observe  at  the 
point  of  impact  of  your  wheel  the  parallel 
crease  is  curved,  as  from  the  yielding  of 
the  resisting  substances,  and  not  broken, 
as  it  would  be  by  the  crumbling  of  a  brick." 

"I  say,  you're  awfully  detective,  don't 
you  know !  just  like  that  fellow  —  what 's 
his  name?"  said  the  stranger  admiringly. 

The  words  recalled  Paul  to  himself. 
Why  was  he  acting  like  a  detective?  and 
what  was  he  seeking  to  discover?  Never 
theless,  he  felt  impelled  to  continue.  "And 
that  queer  old  chap  whom  you  met  —  why 
didn't  he  help  you?" 

"Because  I  passed  him  before  I  ran  into 
the  —  the  parallelogram,  and  I  suppose  he 
didn't  know  what  happened  behind  him?" 

"Did  he  have  anything  in  his  hand?" 


282  A   ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE 

"Can't  say." 

"And  you  say  you  were  unconscious  af 
terwards?  " 

"Yes!" 

"Long  enough  for  the  culprit  to  remove 
the  principal  evidence  of  his  crime?  " 

"Come!  I  say,  really  you  are  —  you 
know  you  are! " 

"Have  you  any  secret  enemy?" 

"No." 

"And  you  don't  know  Mr.  Bunker,  the 
man  who  owns  this  vast  estate?" 

"Not  at  all.     I  'm  from  Upper  Tooting." 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  Paul  abruptly, 
and  turned  away. 

It  struck  him  afterwards  that  his  action 
might  have  seemed  uncivil,  and  even  in 
human,  to  the  bruised  cyclist,  who  could 
hardly  walk.  But  it  was  getting  late,  and 
he  was  still  far  from  the  Hall,  which,  oddly 
enough,  seemed  to  be  no  longer  visible  from 
the  road.  He  wandered  on  for  some  time, 
half  convinced  that  he  had  passed  the  lodge 
gates,  yet  hoping  to  find  some  other  en 
trance  to  the  domain.  Dusk  was  falling; 
the  rounded  outlines  of  the  park  trees  be 
yond  the  wall  were  solid  masses  of  shadow. 
The  full  moon,  presently  rising,  restored 


A  ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE  283 

them  again  to  symmetry,  and  at  last  he,  to 
his  relief,  came  upon  the  massive  gateway. 
Two  lions  ramped  in  stone  on  the  side  pil 
lars.  He  thought  it  strange  that  he  had 
not  noticed  the  gateway  on  his  previous  en 
trance,  but  he  remembered  that  he  was  fully 
preoccupied  with  the  advancing  figure  of 
his  uncle.  In  a  few  minutes  the  Hall  itself 
appeared,  and  here  again  he  was  surprised 
that  he  had  overlooked  before  its  noble  pro 
portions  and  picturesque  outline.  Its  broad 
terraces,  dazzlingly  white  in  the  moonlight; 
its  long  line  of  mullioned  windows,  suffused 
with  a  warm  red  glow  from  within,  made  it 
look  like  part  of  a  wintry  landscape  —  and 
suggested  a  Christmas  card.  The  vener 
able  ivy  that  hid  the  ravages  time  had  made 
in  its  walls  looked  like  black  carving.  His 
heart  swelled  with  strange  emotions  as  he 
gazed  at  his  ancestral  hall.  How  many  of 
his  blood  had  lived  and  died  there;  how 
many  had  gone  forth  from  that  great  porch 
to  distant  lands !  He  tried  to  think  of  his 
father  —  a  little  child  —  peeping  between 
the  balustrades  of  that  terrace.  He  tried 
to  think  of  it,  and  perhaps  would  have  suc 
ceeded  had  it  not  occurred  to  him  that  it 
was  a  known  fact  that  his  uncle  had  bought 


284  A  ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE 

the  estate  and  house  of  an  impoverished 
nobleman  only  the  year  before.  Yet  —  he 
could  not  tell  why  —  he  seemed  to  feel  higher 
and  nobler  for  that  trial. 

The  terrace  was  deserted,  and  so  quiet 
that  as  he  ascended  to  it  his  footsteps 
seemed  to  echo  from  the  walls.  When  he 
reached  the  portals,  the  great  oaken  door 
swung  noiselessly  on  its  hinges  —  opened 
by  some  unseen  but  waiting  servitor  —  and 
admitted  him  to  a  lofty  hall,  dark  with 
hangings  and  family  portraits,  but  warmed 
by  a  red  carpet  the  whole  length  of  its  stone 
floor.  For  a  moment  he  waited  for  the 
servant  to  show  him  to  the  drawing-room 
or  his  uncle's  study.  But  no  one  appeared. 
Believing  this  to  be  a  part  of  the  char 
acteristic  simplicity  of  the  Quaker  house 
hold,  he  boldly  entered  the  first  door,  and 
found  himself  in  a  brilliantly  lit  and  per 
fectly  empty  drawing-room.  The  same  ex 
perience  met  him  with  the  other  rooms  on 
that  floor  —  the  dining-room  displaying  an 
already  set,  exquisitely  furnished  and  deco 
rated  table,  with  chairs  for  twenty  guests! 
He  mechanically  ascended  the  wide  oaken 
staircase  that  led  to  the  corridor  of  bed 
rooms  above  a  central  salon.  Here  he 


A  ROMANCE   OF  TEE  LINE  285 

found  only  the  same  solitude.  Bedroom 
doors  yielded  to  his  touch,  only  to  show  the 
same  brilliantly  lit  vacancy.  He  presently 
came  upon  one  room  which  seemed  to  give 
unmistakable  signs  of  his  own  occupancy. 
Surely  there  stood  his  own  dressing-case  on 
the  table !  and  his  own  evening  clothes  care 
fully  laid  out  on  another,  as  if  fresh  from 
a  valet's  hands.  He  stepped  hastily  into 
the  corridor  —  there  was  no  one  there;  he 
rang  the  bell  —  there  was  no  response! 
But  he  noticed  that  there  was  a  jug  of  hot 
water  in  his  basin,  and  he  began  dressing 
mechanically. 

There  was  little  doubt  that  he  was  in  a 
haunted  house,  but  this  did  not  particularly 
disturb  him.  Indeed,  he  found  himself 
wondering  if  it  could  be  logically  sailed 
a  haunted  house  —  unless  he  himself  was 
haunting  it,  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  other 
there.  Perhaps  the  apparitions  would  come 
later,  when  he  was  dressed.  Clearly  it  was 
not  his  uncle's  house  —  and  yet,  as  he  had 
never  been  inside  his  uncle's  house,  he  re 
flected  that  he  ought  not  to  be  positive. 

He  finished  dressing  and  sat  down  in  an 
armchair  with  a  kind  of  thoughtful  expec 
tancy.  But  presently  his  curiosity  became 


286  A  ROMANCE   OF  TIIE  LINE 

impatient  of  the  silence  and  mystery,  and 
he  ventured  once  more  to  explore  the  house. 
Opening  his  bedroom  door,  he  found  him 
self  again  upon  the  deserted  corridor,  but 
this  time  he  could  distinctly  hear  a  buzz 
of  voices  from  the  drawing-room  below. 
Assured  that  he  was  near  a  solution  of  the 
mystery,  he  rapidly  descended  the  broad 
staircase  and  made  his  way  to  the  open 
door  of  the  drawing-room.  But  although 
the  sound  of  voices  increased  as  he  ad 
vanced,  when  he  entered  the  room,  to  his 
utter  astonishment,  it  was  as  empty  as  be 
fore. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  bewilderment  and 
confusion,  he  was  able  to  follow  one  of  the 
voices,  which,  in  its  peculiar  distinctness 
and  half-perfunctory  tone,  he  concluded 
must  belong  to  the  host  of  the  invisible 
assembly. 

"Ah,"  said  the  voice,  greeting  some 
unseen  visitor,  "so  glad  you  have  come. 
Afraid  your  engagements  just  now  would 
keep  you  away."  Then  the  voice  dropped 
to  a  lower  and  more  confidential  tone. 
"You  must  take  down  Lady  Dartman,  but 
you  will  have  Miss  Morecamp  —  a  clever 
girl  —  on  the  other  side  of  you.  Ah,  Sir 


A  ROMANCE   OF  THE  LINE  287 

George!  So  good  of  you  to  come.  All 
well  at  the  Priory?  So  glad  to  hear  it." 
(Lower  and  more  confidentially.)  "You 
know  Mrs.  Monkston.  You  '11  sit  by  her. 
A  little  cut  up  by  her  husband  losing  his 
seat.  Try  to  amuse  her." 

Emboldened  by  desperation,  Paul  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  "I  am  Paul 
Bunker,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "I  'm 
afraid  you  '11  think  me  intrusive,  but  I  was 
looking  for  my  uncle,  and  "  — 

"Intrusive,  my  dear  boy!  The  son  of 
my  near  neighbor  in  the  country  intrusive  ? 
Really,  now,  I  like  that!  Grace!"  (the 
voice  turned  in  another  direction)  "here  is 
the  American  nephew  of  our  neighbor 
Bunker  at  Widdlestone,  who  thinks  he  is 
'  a  stranger. ' ' 

"We  all  knew  of  your  expected  arrival 
at  Widdlestone  —  it  was  so  good  of  you  to 
waive  ceremony  and  join  us,"  said  a  well- 
bred  feminine  voice,  which  Paul  at  once 
assumed  to  belong  to  the  hostess.  "But  I 
must  find  some  one  for  your  dinner  partner. 
Mary"  (here  her  voice  was  likewise  turned 
away),  "this  is  Mr.  Bunker,  the  nephew  of 
an  old  friend  and  neighbor  in  Upshire;" 
(the  voice  again  turned  to  him),  "you  will 


288  A   ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE 

take  Miss  Morecamp  in.  My  dear  "  (once 
again  averted),  "I  must  find  some  one  else 
to  console  poor  dear  Lord  Billingtree  with." 
Here  the  hostess's  voice  was  drowned  by 
fresh  arrivals. 

Bewildered  and  confused  as  he  was, 
standing  in  this  empty  desert  of  a  drawing- 
room,  yet  encompassed  on  every  side  by 
human  voices,  so  marvelous  was  the  power 
of  suggestion,  he  seemed  to  almost  feel  the 
impact  of  the  invisible  crowd.  He  was 
trying  desperately  to  realize  his  situation 
when  a  singularly  fascinating  voice  at  his 
elbow  unexpectedly  assisted  him.  It  was 
evidently  his  dinner  partner. 

"I  suppose  you  must  be  tired  after  your 
journey.  When  did  you  arrive  ?" 

"Only  a  few  hours  ago,"  said  Paul. 

"And  I  dare  say  you  haven't  slept  since 
you  arrived.  One  does  n't  on  the  passage, 
you  know ;  the  twenty  hours  pass  so  quickly, 
and  the  experience  is  so  exciting  —  to  us 
at  least.  But  I  suppose  as  an  American 
you  are  used  to  it." 

Paul  gasped.  He  had  passively  accepted 
the  bodiless  conversation,  because  it  was  at 
least  intelligible!  But  now !  Was  he 
going  mad? 


A  ROMANCE   OF  THE  LINE  289 

She  evidently  noticed  his  silence.  "Never 
mind,"  she  continued,  uyou  can  tell  me  all 
about  it  at  dinner.  Do  you  know  I  always 
think  that  this  sort  of  thing  —  what  we  're 
doing  now,  —  this  ridiculous  formality  of  re 
ception,  —  which  I  suppose  is  after  all  only 
a  concession  to  our  English  force  of  habit, 
—  is  absurd !  We  ought  to  pass,  as  it  were, 
directly  from  our  houses  to  the  dinner-table. 
It  saves  time." 

"Yes  —  no  —  that  is  —  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  follow  you,"  stammered  Paul. 

There  was  a  slight  pout  in  her  voice  as 
she  replied:  "No  matter  now  —  we  must 
follow  them  —  for  our  host  is  moving  off 
with  Lady  Billingtree,  and  it 's  our  turn 
now." 

So  great  was  the  illusion  that  he  found 
himself  mechanically  offering  his  arm  as  he 
moved  through  the  empty  room  towards  the 
door.  Then  he  descended  the  staircase 
without  another  word,  preceded,  however, 
by  the  sound  of  his  host's  voice.  Following 
this  as  a  blind  man  might,  he  entered  the 
dining-room,  which  to  his  discomfiture  was 
as  empty  as  the  salon  above.  Still  follow 
ing  the  host's  voice,  he  dropped  into  a  chair 
before  the  empty  table,  wondering  what 


290  A   ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE 

variation  of  the  Barmecide  feast  was  in 
store  for  him.  Yet  the  hum  of  voices  from 
the  vacant  chairs  around  the  board  so 
strongly  impressed  him  that  he  could  almost 
believe  that  he  was  actually  at  dinner. 

"Are  you  seated?"  asked  the  charming 
voice  at  his  side. 

"Yes,"  a  little  wonderingly,  as  his  was 
the  only  seat  visibly  occupied. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  this  silly  ceremony  is 
over.  By  the  way,  where  are  you? " 

Paul  would  have  liked  to  answer,  "Lord 
only  knows!  "  but  he  reflected  that  it  might 
not  sound  polite.  "Where  am  I?>5  he 
feebly  repeated. 

"Yes;  where  are  you  dining?" 

It  seemed  a  cool  question  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  but  he  answered  promptly,  — 

"With  you." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  charming  voice; 
"but  where  are  you  eating  your  dinner?  " 

Considering  that  he  was  not  eating  any 
thing,  Paul  thought  this  cooler  still.  But 
he  answered  briefly,  "In  Upshire." 

"Oh!     At  your  uncle's?" 

"No,"  said  Paul  bluntly;  "in  the  next 
house." 

"Why,  that 's  Sir  William's  —  our  host's 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  291 

—  and  he  and  his  family  are  here  in  Lon 
don.  You  are  joking." 

"Listen!"  said  Paul  desperately.  Then 
in  a  voice  unconsciously  lowered  he  hur 
riedly  told  her  where  he  was  —  how  he  came 
there  —  the  empty  house  —  the  viewless 
company!  To  his  surprise  the  only  re 
sponse  was  a  musical  little  laugh.  But  the 
next  moment  her  voice  rose  higher  with  an 
unmistakable  concern  in  it,  apparently  ad 
dressing  their  invisible  host. 

"Oh,  Sir  William,  only  think  how  dread 
ful.  Here  's  poor  Mr.  Bunker,  alone  in  an 
empty  house,  which  he  has  mistaken  for 
his  uncle's  —  and  without  any  dinner!  " 

"Really;  dear,  dear!  How  provoking! 
But  how  does  he  happen  to  be  with  us? 
James,  how  is  this?  " 

"If  you  please,  Sir  William,"  said  a 
servant's  respectful  voice,  "Widdlestone  is 
in  the  circuit  and  is  switched  on  with  the 
others.  We  heard  that  a  gentleman's  lug 
gage  had  arrived  at  Widdlestone,  and  we 
telegraphed  for  the  rooms  to  be  made  ready, 
thinking  we  'd  have  her  ladyship's  orders 
later." 

A  single  gleam  of  intelligence  flashed 
upon  Paul.  His  luggage  —  yes,  had  been 


292  A  ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE 

sent  from  the  station  to  the  wrong  house, 
and  he  had  unwittingly  followed.  But 
these  voices!  whence  did  they  come?  And 
where  was  the  actual  dinner  at  which  his 
host  was  presiding?  It  clearly  was  not  at 
this  empty  table. 

"  See  that  he  has  everything  he  wants  at 
once,"  said  Sir  William;  "there  must  be 
some  one  there."  Then  his  voice  turned  in 
the  direction  of  Paul  again,  and  he  said 
laughingly,  "  Possess  your  soul  and  appetite 
in  patience  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Bunker; 
you  will  be  only  a  course  behind  us.  But 
we  are  lucky  in  having  your  company  — 
even  at  your  own  discomfort." 

Still  more  bewildered,  Paul  turned  to  his 
invisible  partner.  "May  I  ask  where  you 
are  dining?" 

"Certainly;  at  home  in  Curzon  Street," 
returned  the  pretty  voice.  "It  was  raining 
so,  I  did  not  go  out." 

"And  — Lord  Billington?  "  faltered 
Paul. 

"Oh,  he's  in  Scotland  —  at  his  own 
place." 

"Then,  in  fact,  nobody  is  dining  here  at 
all,"  said  Paul  desperately. 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then  the 


A  ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE  293 

voice  responded,  with  a  touch  of  startled 
suggestion  in  it:  "Good  heavens,  Mr. 
Bunker!  Is  it  possible  you  don't  know 
we  're  dining  by  telephone?  " 

"By  what?'' 

"Telephone.  Yes.  We 're  a  telephonic 
dinner-party.  We  are  dining  in  our  own 
houses ;  but,  being  all  friends,  we  're 
switched  on  to  each  other,  and  converse 
exactly  as  we  would  at  table.  It  saves  a 
great  trouble  and  expense,  for  any  one  of 
us  can  give  the  party,  and  the  poorest  can 
equal  the  most  extravagant.  People  who 
are  obliged  to  diet  can  partake  of  their  own 
slops  at  home,  and  yet  mingle  with  the 
gourmets  without  awkwardness  or  the  neces 
sity  of  apology.  We  are  spared  the  spec 
tacle,  at  least,  of  those  who  eat  and  drink 
too  much.  We  can  switch  off  a  bore  at 
once.  We  can  retire  when  we  are  fatigued, 
without  leaving  a  blank  space  before  the 
others.  And  all  this  without  saying  any 
thing  of  the  higher  spiritual  and  intellectual 
effect  —  freed  from  material  grossness  of 
appetite  and  show  —  which  the  dinner  party 
thus  attains.  But  you  are  surely  joking! 
You,  an  American,  and  not  know  it! 
Why,  it  comes  from  Boston.  Haven't  you 


294  A  ROMANCE    OF   THE  LINE 

read  that  book,  '  Jumping  a  Century '  ? 
It 's  by  an  American." 

A  strange  illumination  came  upon  Paul. 
Where  had  he  heard  something  like  this 
before?  But  at  the  same  moment  his 
thoughts  were  diverted  by  the  material  en 
trance  of  a  footman,  bearing  a  silver  salver 
with  his  dinner.  It  was  part  of  his  singu 
lar  experience  that  the  visible  entrance  of 
this  real,  commonplace  mortal  —  the  only 
one  he  had  seen  —  in  the  midst  of  this 
voiceless  solitude  was  distinctly  unreal,  and 
had  all  the  effect  of  an  apparition.  He 
distrusted  it  and  the  dishes  before  him. 
But  his  lively  partner's  voice  was  now  ad 
dressing  an  unseen  occupant  of  the  next 
chair.  Had  she  got  tired  of  his  ignorance, 
or  was  it  feminine  tact  to  enable  him  to  eat 
something?  He  accepted  the  latter  hypo 
thesis,  and  tried  to  eat.  But  he  felt  himself 
following  the  fascinating  voice  in  all  the 
charm  of  its  youthful  and  spiritual  inflec 
tions.  Taking  advantage  of  its  momentary 
silence,  he  said  gently,  — 

"I  confess  my  ignorance,  and  am  willing 
to  admit  all  you  claim  for  this  wonderful 
invention.  But  do  you  think  it  compen 
sates  for  the  loss  of  the  individual  person  ? 


A  ROMANCE   OF   TEE  LINE  295 

Take  my  own  case  —  if  you  will  not  think 
me  personal.  I  have  never  had  the  plea 
sure  of  seeing  you;  do  you  believe  that  I 
am  content  with  only  that  suggestion  of 
your  personality  which  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing  your  voice  affords  me?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  very  mis 
chievous  ring  in  the  voice  that  replied :  "  It 
certainly  is  a  personal  question,  and  it  is 
another  blessing  of  this  invention  that 
you  '11  never  know  whether  I  am  blushing 
or  not ;  but  I  forgive  you,  for  /  never  be 
fore  spoke  to  any  one  I  had  never  seen  — 
and  I  suppose  it 's  confusion.  But  do  you 
really  think  you  would  know  me  —  the  real 
one — any  better?  It  is  the  real  person 
who  thinks  and  speaks,  not  the  outward 
semblance  that  we  see,  which  very  often 
unfairly  either  attracts  or  repels  us?  We 
can  always  show  ourselves  at  our  best,  but 
we  must,  at  last,  reveal  our  true  colors 
through  our  thoughts  and  speech.  Is  n't  it 
better  to  begin  with  the  real  thing  first?" 

"I  hope,  at  least,  to  have  the  privilege 
of  judging  by  myself,"  said  Paul  gallantly. 
"You  will  not  be  so  cruel  as  not  to  let  me 
see  you  elsewhere,  otherwise  I  shall  feel  as 
if  I  were  in  some  dream,  and  will  certainly 


296  A   ROMANCE   OF   THE  LINE 

be  opposed  to  your  preference  for  reali 
ties.  " 

"I  am  not  certain  if  the  dream  would  not 
be  more  interesting  to  you,"  said  the  voice 
laughingly.  "But  I  think  your  hostess  is 
already  saying  '  good-by.'  You  know 
everybody  goes  at  once  at  this  kind  of 
party;  the  ladies  don't  retire  first,  and  the 
gentlemen  join  them  afterwards.  In  an 
other  moment  we  '11  all  be  switched  off ;  but 
Sir  William  wants  me  to  tell  you  that  his 
coachman  will  drive  you  to  your  uncle's, 
unless  you  prefer  to  try  and  make  yourself 
comfortable  for  the  night  here.  Good-by !  " 

The  voices  around  him  seemed  to  grow 
fainter,  and  then  utterly  cease.  The  lights 
suddenly  leaped  up,  went  out,  and  left  him 
in  complete  darkness.  He  attempted  to 
rise,  but  in  doing  so  overset  the  dishes  be 
fore  him,  which  slid  to  the  floor.  A  cold 
air  seemed  to  blow  across  his  feet.  The 
"good-by"  was  still  ringing  in  his  ears  as 
he  straightened  himself  to  find  he  was  in 
his  railway  carriage,  whose  door  had  just 
been  opened  for  a  young  lady  who  was  en 
tering  the  compartment  from  a  wayside  sta 
tion.  "Good-by,"  she  repeated  to  the  friend 
who  was  seeing  her  off.  The  Writer  of 


A  ROMANCE    OF   THE   LINE  297 

Stories  hurriedly  straightened  himself,  gath 
ered  up  the  magazines  and  papers  that  had 
fallen  from  his  lap,  and  glanced  at  the  sta 
tion  walls.  The  old  illustrations  glanced 
back  at  him !  He  looked  at  his  watch ;  he 
had  been  asleep  just  ten  minutes  I 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS    IN  SAN  FKAN- 
CISCO 

IT  is  but  just  to  the  respectable  memory 
of  San  Francisco  that  in  these  vagrant  re 
collections  I  should  deprecate  at  once  any 
suggestion  that  the  levity  of  my  title  de 
scribed  its  dominant  tone  at  any  period  of 
my  early  experiences.  On  the  contrary,  it 
was  a  singular  fact  that  while  the  rest  of 
California  was  swayed  by  an  easy,  careless 
unconventionalism,  or  swept  over  by  waves 
of  emotion  and  sentiment,  San  Francisco 
preserved  an  intensely  material  and  practi 
cal  attitude,  and  even  a  certain  austere 
morality.  I  do  not,  of  course,  allude  to 
the  brief  days  of  '49,  when  it  was  a  strag 
gling  beach  of  huts  and  stranded  hulks,  but 
to  the  earlier  stages  of  its  development  into 
the  metropolis  of  California.  Its  first  tot 
tering  steps  in  that  direction  were  marked 
by  a  distinct  gravity  and  decorum.  Even 
during  the  period  when  the  revolver  set 
tled  small  private  difficulties,  and  Vigilance 
Committees  adjudicated  larger  public  ones, 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    299 

an  unmistakable  seriousness  and  respecta 
bility  was  the  ruling  sign  of  its  governing 
class.  It  was  not  improbable  that  under 
the  reign  of  the  Committee  the  lawless  and 
vicious  class  were  more  appalled  by  the 
moral  spectacle  of  several  thousand  black- 
coated,  serious-minded  business  men  in  em 
battled  procession  than  by  mere  force  of 
arms,  and  one  "suspect"  —  a  prize-fighter 
—  is  known  to  have  committed  suicide  in 
his  cell  after  confrontation  with  his  grave 
and  passionless  shopkeeping  judges.  Even 
that  peculiar  quality  of  Californian  humor 
which  was  apt  to  mitigate  the  extravagances 
of  the  revolver  and  the  uncertainties  of 
poker  had  no  place  in  the  decorous  and  re 
sponsible  utterance  of  San  Francisco.  The 
press  was  sober,  materialistic,  practical  — 
when  it  was  not  severely  admonitory  of 
existing  evil;  the  few  smaller  papers  that 
indulged  in  levity  were  considered  libelous 
and  improper.  Fancy  was  displaced  by 
heavy  articles  on  the  revenues  of  the  State 
and  inducements  to  the  investment  of  cap 
ital.  Local  news  was  under  an  implied 
censorship  which  suppressed  anything  that 
might  tend  to  discourage  timid  or  cautious 
capital.  Episodes  of  romantic  lawlessness 


300    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

or  pathetic  incidents  of  mining  life  were 
carefully  edited  —  with  the  comment  that 
these  things  belonged  to  the  past,  and  that 
life  and  property  were  now  "as  safe  in  San 
Francisco  as  in  New  York  or  London." 

Wonder-loving  visitors  in  quest  of  scenes 
characteristic  of  the  civilization 'were  coldly 
snubbed  with  this  assurance.  Fires,  floods, 
and  even  seismic  convulsions  were  subjected 
to  a  like  grimly  materialistic  optimism.  I 
have  a  vivid  recollection  of  a  ponderous 
editorial  on  one  of  the  severer  earthquakes, 
in  which  it  was  asserted  that  only  the  un 
expectedness  of  the  onset  prevented  San 
Francisco  from  meeting  it  in  a  way  that 
would  be  deterrent  of  all  future  attacks. 
The  unconsciousness  of  the  humor  was  only 
equaled  by  the  gravity  with  which  it  was 
received  by  the  whole  business  community. 
Strangely  enough,  this  grave  materialism 
flourished  side  by  side  with  —  and  was  even 
sustained  by  —  a  narrow  religious  strictness 
more  characteristic  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
of  a  past  century  than  the  Western  pioneers 
of  the  present.  San  Francisco  was  early 
a  city  of  churches  and  church  organizations 
to  which  the  leading  men  and  merchants 
belonged.  The  lax  Sundays  of  the  dying 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    301 

Spanish  race  seemed  only  to  provoke  a  re 
vival  of  the  rigors  o£  the  Puritan  Sabbath. 
With  the  Spaniard  and  his  Sunday  after 
noon  bullfight  scarcely  an  hour  distant, 
the  San  Francisco  pulpit  thundered  against 
Sunday  picnics.  One  of  the  popular 
preachers,  declaiming  upon  the  practice  of 
Sunday  dinner-giving,  averred  that  when 
he  saw  a  guest  in  his  best  Sunday  clothes 
standing  shamelessly  upon  the  doorstep  of 
his  host,  he  felt  like  seizing  him  by  the 
shoulder  and  dragging  him  from  that  thresh 
old  of  perdition. 

Against  the  actual  heathen  the  feeling 
was  even  stronger,  and  reached  its  climax 
one  Sunday  when  a  Chinaman  was  stoned 
to  death  by  a  crowd  of  children  returning 
from  Sunday-school.  I  am  offering  these 
examples  with  no  ethical  purpose,  but 
merely  to  indicate  a  singular  contradictory 
condition  which  I  do  not  think  writers  of 
early  Californian  history  have  fairly  re 
corded.  It  is  not  my  province  to  suggest 
any  theory  for  these  appalling  exceptions 
to  the  usual  good-humored  lawlessness  and 
extravagance  of  the  rest  of  the  State.  They 
may  have  been  essential  agencies  to  the 
growth  and  evolution  of  the  city.  They 


302    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FItANCISCO 

were  undoubtedly  sincere.  The  impressions 
I  propose  to  give  of  certain  scenes  and  inci 
dents  of  my  early  experience  must,  there 
fore,  be  taken  as  purely  personal  and  Bohe 
mian,  and  their  selection  as  equally  indi 
vidual  and  vagrant.  I  am  writing  of  what 
interested  me  at  the  time,  though  not  per 
haps  of  what  was  more  generally  character 
istic  of  San  Francisco. 

I  had  been  there  a  week  —  an  idle  week, 
spent  in  listless  outlook  for  employment; 
a  full  week  in  my  eager  absorption  of  the 
strange  life  around  me  and  a  photographic 
sensitiveness  to  certain  scenes  and  incidents 
of  those  days,  which  start  out  of  my  mem 
ory  to-day  as  freshly  as  the  day  they  im 
pressed  me. 

One  of  these  recollections  is  of  "steamer 
night,"  as  it  was  called,  —  the  night  of 
"steamer  day,"  —  preceding  the  departure 
of  the  mail  steamship  with  the  mails  for 
"home."  Indeed,  at  that  time  San  Fran 
cisco  may  be  said  to  have  lived  from  steamer 
day  to  steamer  day;  bills  were  made  due 
on  that  day,  interest  computed  to  that  pe 
riod,  and  accounts  settled.  The  next  day 
was  the  turning  of  a  new  leaf:  another 
essay  to  fortune,  another  inspiration  of  en- 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    303 

ergy.  So  recognized  was  the  fact  that  even 
ordinary  changes  of  condition,  social  and 
domestic,  were  put  aside  until  after  steamer 
day.  "I'll  see  what  I  can  do  after  next 
steamer  day  "  was  the  common  cautious  or 
hopeful  formula.  It  was  the  "Saturday 
night "  of  many  a  wage-earner  —  and  to 
him  a  night  of  festivity.  The  thorough 
fares  were  animated  and  crowded;  the 
saloons  and  theatres  full.  I  can  recall  my 
self  at  such  times  wandering  along  the  City 
Front,  as  the  business  part  of  San  Fran 
cisco  was  then  known.  Here  the  lights 

O 

were  burning  all  night,  the  first  streaks  of 
dawn  finding  the  merchants  still  at  their 
counting-house  desks.  I  remember  the  dim 
lines  of  warehouses  lining  the  insecure 
wharves  of  rotten  piles,  half  filled  in  —  that 
had  ceased  to  be  wharves,  but  had  not  yet 
become  streets,  —  their  treacherous  yawning 
depths,  with  the  uncertain  gleam  of  tarlike 
mud  below,  at  times  still  vocal  with  the  lap 
and  gurgle  of  the  tide.  I  remember  the 
weird  stories  of  disappearing  men  found 
afterward  imbedded  in  the  ooze  in  which 
they  had  fallen  and  gasped  their  life  away. 
I  remember  the  two  or  three  ships,  still  left 
standing  where  they  were  beached  a  year 


304    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

or  two  before,  built  in  between  warehouses, 
their  bows  projecting  into  the  roadway. 
There  was  the  dignity  of  the  sea  and  its 
boundless  freedom  in  their  beautiful  curves, 
which  the  abutting  houses  could  not  destroy, 
and  even  something  of  the  sea's  loneliness 
in  the  far-spaced  ports  and  cabin  windows 
lit  up  by  the  lamps  of  the  prosaic  landsmen 
who  plied  their  trades  behind  them.  One 
of  these  ships,  transformed  into  a  hotel, 
retained  its  name,  the  Niantic,  and  part 
of  its  characteristic  interior  unchanged.  I 
remember  these  ships'  old  tenants  —  the 
rats  —  who  had  increased  and  multiplied  to 
such  an  extent  that  at  night  they  fearlessly 
crossed  the  wayfarer's  path  at  every  turn, 
and  even  invaded  the  gilded  saloons  of 
Montgomery  Street.  In  the  Niantic  their 
pit-a-pat  was  met  on  every  staircase,  and 
it  was  said  that  sometimes  in  an  excess  of 
sociability  they  accompanied  the  traveler 
to  his  room.  In  the  early  "cloth-and- 
papered "  houses  —  so  called  because  the 
ceilings  were  not  plastered,  but  simply  cov 
ered  by  stretched  and  whitewashed  cloth  — 
their  scamperings  were  plainly  indicated  in 
zigzag  movements  of  the  sagging  cloth,  or 
they  became  actually  visible  by  finally  drop- 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    305 

ping  through  the  holes  they  had  worn  in  it ! 
I  remember  the  house  whose  foundations 
were  made  of  boxes  of  plug  tobacco  —  part 
of  a  jettisoned  cargo  —  used  instead  of  more 
expensive  lumber;  and  the  adjacent  ware 
house  where  the  trunks  of  the  early  and 
forgotten  "forty-niners"  were  stored,  and 
—  never  claimed  by  their  dead  or  missing 
owners  —  were  finally  sold  at  auction.  I 
remember  the  strong  breath  of  the  sea  over 
all,  and  the  constant  onset  of  the  trade 
winds  which  helped  to  disinfect  the  deposit 
of  dirt  and  grime,  decay  and  wreckage, 
which  were  stirred  up  in  the  later  evolutions 
of  the  city. 

Or  I  recall,  with  the  same  sense  of  youth 
ful  satisfaction  and  unabated  wonder,  my 
wanderings  through  the  Spanish  Quarter, 
where  three  centuries  of  quaint  customs, 
speech,  and  dress  were  still  preserved; 
where  the  proverbs  of  Sancho  Panza  were 
still  spoken  in  the  language  of  Cervantes, 
and  the  high-flown  illusions  of  the  La  Man- 
chian  knight  still  a  part  of  the  Spanish 
Calif ornian  hidalgo's  dream.  I  recall  the 
more  modern  "Greaser,"  or  Mexican  —  his 
index  finger  steeped  in  cigarette  stains ;  his 
velvet  jacket  and  his  crimson  sash;  the 


306    BOUEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

many -flounced  skirt  and  lace  manta  of  his 
women,  and  their  caressing  intonations  — 
the  one  musical  utterance  of  the  whole  hard- 
voiced  city.  I  suppose  I  had  a  boy's  diges 
tion  and  bluntness  of  taste  in  those  days, 
for  the  combined  odor  of  tobacco,  burned 
paper,  and  garlic,  which  marked  that  melo 
dious  breath,  did  not  affect  me. 

Perhaps  from  my  Puritan  training  I  ex 
perienced  a  more  fearful  joy  in  the  gam 
bling  saloons.  They  were  the  largest  and 
most  comfortable,  even  as  they  were  the 
most  expensively  decorated  rooms  in  San 
Francisco.  Here  again  the  gravity  and  de 
corum  which  I  have  already  alluded  to  were 
present  at  that  earlier  period  —  though  per 
haps  from  concentration  of  another  kind. 
People  staked  and  lost  their  last  dollar  with 
a  calm  solemnity  and  a  resignation  that  was 
almost  Christian.  The  oaths,  exclamations, 
and  feverish  interruptions  which  often  char 
acterized  more  dignified  assemblies  were 
absent  here.  There  was  no  room  for  the 
lesser  vices;  there  was  little  or  no  drunken 
ness;  the  gaudily  dressed  and  painted  wo 
men  who  presided  over  the  wheels  of  for 
tune  or  performed  on  the  harp  and  piano 
attracted  no  attention  from  those  ascetic 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    307 

players.  The  man  who  had  won  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  and  the  man  who  had  lost 
everything  rose  from  the  table  with  equal 
silence  and  imperturbability.  /  never  wit 
nessed  any  tragic  sequel  to  those  losses ;  / 
never  heard  of  any  suicide  on  account  of 
them.  Neither  can  I  recall  any  quarrel  or 
murder  directly  attributable  to  this  kind  of 
gambling.  It  must  be  remembered  that 
these  public  games  were  chiefly  rouge  et 
noir,  monte,  faro,  or  roulette,  in  which  the 
antagonist  was  Fate,  Chance,  Method,  or 
the  impersonal  "bank,"  which  was  supposed 
to  represent  them  all;  there  was  no  indi 
vidual  opposition  or  rivalry;  nobody  chal 
lenged  the  decision  of  the  "croupier,"  or 
dealer. 

I  remember  a  conversation  at  the  door 
of  one  saloon  which  was  as  characteristic 
for  its  brevity  as  it  was  a  type  of  the  pre 
vailing  stoicism.  "Hello!"  said  a  depart 
ing  miner,  as  he  recognized  a  brother  miner 
coming  in,  "when  did  you  come  down?" 
"This  morning,"  was  the  reply.  "Made 
a  strike  on  the  bar?  "  suggested  the  first 
speaker.  "You  bet!"  said  the  other,  and 
passed  in.  I  chanced  an  hour  later  to  be 
at  the  same  place  as  they  met  again  —  their 


308    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

relative  positions  changed.  "  Hello !  Whar 
now?"  said  the  incomer.  "Back  to  the 
bar."  "Cleaned  out?"  "You  bet!"  Not 
a  word  more  explained  a  common  situation. 
My  first  youthful  experience  at  those 
tables  was  an  accidental  one.  I  was  watch 
ing  roulette  one  evening,  intensely  absorbed 
in  the  mere  movement  of  the  players. 
Either  they  were  so  preoccupied  with  the 
game,  or  I  was  really  older  looking  than 
my  actual  years,  but  a  bystander  laid  his 
hand  familiarly  on  my  shoulder,  and  said, 
as  to  an  ordinary  habitue,  "Ef  you  're  not 
chippin'  in  yourself,  pardner,  s'pose  you 
give  me  a  show."  Now  I  honestly  believe 
that  up  to  that  moment  I  had  no  intention, 
nor  even  a  desire,  to  try  my  own  fortune. 
But  in  the  embarrassment  of  the  sudden 
address  I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket,  drew 
out  a  coin,  and  laid  it,  with  an  attempt  at 
carelessness,  but  a  vivid  consciousness  that 
I  was  blushing,  upon  a  vacant  number. 
To  my  horror  I  saw  that  I  had  put  down 
a  large  coin  —  the  bulk  of  my  possessions ! 
I  did  not  flinch,  however;  I  think  any  boy 
who  reads  this  will  understand  my  feeling ; 
it  was  not  only  my  coin  but  my  manhood 
at  stake.  I  gazed  with  a  miserable  show 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    309 

of  indifference  at  the  players,  at  the  chan 
delier  —  anywhere  but  at  the  dreadful  ball 
spinning  round  the  wheel.  There  was  a 
pause;  the  game  was  declared,  the  rake 
rattled  up  and  down,  but  still  I  did  not 
look  at  the  table.  Indeed,  in  my  inexpe 
rience  of  the  game  and  my  embarrassment, 
I  doubt  if  I  should  have  known  if  I  had 
won  or  not.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  should  lose,  but  I  must  do  so  like  a  man, 
and,  above  all,  without  giving  the  least  sus 
picion  that  I  was  a  greenhorn.  I  even  af 
fected  to  be  listening  to  the  music.  The 
wheel  spun  again;  the  game  was  declared, 
the  rake  was  busy,  but  I  did  not  move.  At 
last  the  man  I  had  displaced  touched  me 
on  the  arm  and  whispered,  "Better  make 
a  straddle  and  divide  your  stake  this  time." 
I  did  not  understand  him,  but  as  I  saw  he 
was  looking  at  the  board,  I  was  obliged  to 
look,  too.  I  drew  back  dazed  and  bewil 
dered  !  Where  my  coin  had  lain  a  moment 
before  was  a  glittering  heap  of  gold. 

My  stake  had  doubled,  quadrupled,  and 
doubled  again.  I  did  not  know  how  much 
then  -  - 1  do  not  know  now  —  it  may  have 
been  not  more  than  three  or  four  hundred 
dollars  —  but  it  dazzled  and  frightened  me. 


310    BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

"Make  your  game,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
croupier  monotonously.  I  thought  he 
looked  at  me  —  indeed,  everybody  seemed 
to  be  looking  at  me  —  and  my  companion 
repeated  his  warning.  But  here  I  must 
again  appeal  to  the  boyish  reader  in  defense 
of  my  idiotic  obstinacy.  To  have  taken 
advice  would  have  shown  my  youth.  I 
shook  my  head  —  I  could  not  trust  my 
voice.  I  smiled,  but  with  a  sinking  heart, 
and  let  my  stake  remain.  The  ball  again 
sped  round  the  wheel,  and  stopped.  There 
was  a  pause.  The  croupier  indolently  ad 
vanced  his  rake  and  swept  my  whole  pile 
with  others  into  the  bank !  I  had  lost  it  all. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  difficult  for  me  to  ex 
plain  why  I  actually  felt  relieved,  and  even 
to  some  extent  triumphant,  but  I  seemed  to 
have  asserted  my  grown-up  independence  — • 
possibly  at  the  cost  of  reducing  the  number 
of  my  meals  for  days;  but  what  of  that!  I 
was  a  man !  I  wish  I  could  say  that  it  was 
a  lesson  to  me.  I  am  afraid  it  was  not. 
It  was  true  that  I  did  not  gamble  again, 
but  then  I  had  no  especial  desire  to  —  and 
there  was  no  temptation.  I  am  afraid  it 
was  an  incident  without  a  moral.  Yet  it 
had  one  touch  characteristic  of  the  period 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    311 

which  I  like  to  remember.  The  man  who 
had  spoken  to  me,  I  think,  suddenly  real 
ized,  at  the  moment  of  my  disastrous  coup, 
the  fact  of  my  extreme  youth.  He  moved 
toward  the  banker,  and  leaning  over  him 
whispered  a  few  words.  The  banker  looked 
up,  half  impatiently,  half  kindly  —  his 
hand  straying  tentatively  toward  the  pile 
of  coin.  I  instinctively  knew  what  he 
meant,  and,  summoning  my  determination, 
met  his  eyes  with  all  the  indifference  I  could 
assume,  and  walked  away. 

I  had  at  that  period  a  small  room  at  the 
top  of  a  house  owned  by  a  distant  relation 
—  a  second  or  third  cousin,  I  think.  He 
was  a  man  of  independent  and  original 
character,  had  a  Ulyssean  experience  of 
men  and  cities,  and  an  old  English  name 
of  which  he  was  proud.  While  in  London 
he  had  procured  from  the  Heralds'  College 
his  family  arms,  whose  crest  was  stamped 
upon  a  quantity  of  plate  he  had  brought 
with  him  to  California.  The  plate,  to 
gether  with  an  exceptionally  good  cook, 
which  he  had  also  brought,  and  his  own 
epicurean  tastes,  he  utilized  in  the  usual 
practical  Californian  fashion  by  starting  a 
rather  expensive  half-club,  half-restaurant 


312    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

in  the  lower  part  of  the  building  —  which 
he  ruled  somewhat  autocratically,  as  became 
his  crest.  The  restaurant  was  too  expen 
sive  for  me  to  patronize,  but  I  saw  many 
of  its  frequenters  as  well  as  those  who  had 
rooms  at  the  club.  They  were  men  of  very 
distinct  personality;  a  few  celebrated,  and 
nearly  all  notorious.  They  represented  a 
Bohemianism  —  if  such  it  could  be  called 
—  less  innocent  than  my  later  experiences. 
I  remember,  however,  one  handsome  young 
fellow  whom  I  used  to  meet  occasionally  on 
the  staircase,  who  captured  my  youthful 
fancy.  I  met  him  only  at  midday,  as  he 
did  not  rise  till  late,  and  this  fact,  with  a 
certain  scrupulous  elegance  and  neatness  in 
his  dress,  ought  to  have  made  me  suspect 
that  he  was  a  gambler.  In  my  inexpe 
rience  it  only  invested  him  with  a  certain 
romantic  mystery. 

One  morning  as  I  was  going  out  to  my 
very  early  breakfast  at  a  cheap  Italian  cafe 
on  Long  Wharf,  I  was  surprised  to  find 
him  also  descending  the  staircase.  He  was 
scrupulously  dressed  even  at  that  early 
hour,  but  I  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  he 
was  all  in  black,  and  his  slight  figure,  but 
toned  to  the  throat  in  a  tightly  fitting  frock 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    313 

coat,  gave,  I  fancied,  a  singular  melancholy 
to  his  pale  Southern  face.  Nevertheless, 
he  greeted  me  with  more  than  his  usual 
serene  cordiality,  and  I  remembered  that 
he  looked  up  with  a  half-puzzled,  half- 
amused  expression  at  the  rosy  morning  sky 
as  he  walked  a  few  steps  with  me  down  the 
deserted  street.  I  could  not  help  saying 
that  I  was  astonished  to  see  him  up  so  early, 
and  he  admitted  that  it  was  a  break  in  his 
usual  habits,  but  added  with  a  smiling  sig 
nificance  I  afterwards  remembered  that  it 
was  "an  even  chance  if  he  did  it  again." 
As  we  neared  the  street  corner  a  man  in  a 
buggy  drove  up  impatiently.  In  spite  of 
the  driver's  evident  haste,  my  handsome 
acquaintance  got  in  leisurely,  and,  lifting 
his  glossy  hat  to  me  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
was  driven  away.  I  have  a  very  lasting 
recollection  of  his  face  and  figure  as  the 
buggy  disappeared  down  the  empty  street. 
I  never  saw  him  again.  It  was  not  until 
a  week  later  that  I  knew  that  an  hour  after 
he  left  me  that  morning  he  was  lying  dead 
in  a  little  hollow  behind  the  Mission  Dolores 
—  shot  through  the  heart  in  a  duel  for 
which  he  had  risen  so  early. 

I  recall  another  incident  of  that  period, 


314    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

equally  characteristic,  but  happily  less 
tragic  in  sequel.  I  was  in  the  restaurant 
one  morning  talking  to  my  cousin  when  a 
man  entered  hastily  and  said  something  to 
him  in  a  hurried  whisper.  My  cousin  con 
tracted  his  eyebrows  and  uttered  a  sup 
pressed  oath.  Then  with  a  gesture  of 
warning  to  the  man  he  crossed  the  room 
quietly  to  a  table  where  a  regular  habitue 
of  the  restaurant  was  lazily  finishing  his 
breakfast.  A  large  silver  coffee-pot  with 
a  stiff  wooden  handle  stood  on  the  table 
before  him.  My  cousin  leaned  over  the 
guest  familiarly  and  apparently  made  some 
hospitable  inquiry  as  to  his  wants,  with  his 
hand  resting  lightly  on  the  coffee-pot  handle. 
Then  —  possibly  because,  my  curiosity  hav 
ing  been  excited,  I  was  watching  him  more 
intently  than  the  others  —  /  saw  what  prob 
ably  no  one  else  saw  —  that  he  deliberately 
upset  the  coffee-pot  and  its  contents  over 
the  guest's  shirt  and  waistcoat.  As  the 
victim  sprang  up  with  an  exclamation,  my 
cousin  overwhelmed  him  with  apologies  for 
his  carelessness,  and,  with  protestations  of 
sorrow  for  the  accident,  actually  insisted 
upon  dragging  the  man  upstairs  into  his 
own  private  room,  where  he  furnished  him 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    315 

with  a  shirt  and  waistcoat  of  his  own.  The 
side  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  them, 
and  I  was  still  lost  in  wonder  at  what  I  had 
seen,  when  a  man  entered  from  the  street. 
He  was  one  of  the  desperate  set  I  have  al 
ready  spoken  of,  and  thoroughly  well  known 
to  those  present.  He  cast  a  glance  around 
the  room,  nodded  to  one  or  two  of  the 
guests,  and  then  walked  to  a  side  table  and 
took  up  a  newspaper.  I  was  conscious  at 
once  that  a  singular  constraint  had  come 
over  the  other  guests  —  a  nervous  awkward 
ness  that  at  last  seemed  to  make  itself 
known  to  the  man  himself,  who,  after  an 
affected  yawn  or  two,  laid  down  the  paper 
and  walked  out. 

"That  was  a  mighty  close  call,"  said  one 
of  the  guests  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"You  bet!  And  that  coffee-pot  spill  was 
the  luckiest  kind  of  accident  for  Peters," 
returned  another. 

"For  both,"  added  the  first  speaker,  "for 
Peters  was  armed  too,  and  would  have  seen 
him  come  in !  " 

A  word  or  two  explained  all.  Peters 
and  the  last  comer  had  quarreled  a  day  or 
two  before,  and  had  separated  with  the  in 
tention  to  "shoot  on  sight,"  that  is,  wher- 


316     BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

ever  they  met,  —  a  form  of  duel  common  to 
those  days.  The  accidental  meeting  in  the 
restaurant  would  have  been  the  occasion, 
with  the  usual  sanguinary  consequence, 
but  for  the  word  of  warning  given  to  my 
cousin  by  a  passer-by  who  knew  that  Peters' 
antagonist  was  coming  to  the  restaurant  to 
look  at  the  papers.  Had  my  cousin  re 
peated  the  warning  to  Peters  himself  he 
would  only  have  prepared  him  for  the  con 
flict  —  which  he  would  not  have  shirked  — 
and  so  precipitated  the  affray. 

The  ruse  of  upsetting  the  coffee-pot, 
which  everybody  but  myself  thought  an 
accident,  was  to  get  him  out  of  the  room 
before  the  other  entered.  I  was  too  young 
then  to  venture  to  intrude  upon  my  cousin's 
secrets,  but  two  or  three  years  afterwards  I 
taxed  him  with  the  trick  and  he  admitted 
it  regretfully.  I  believe  that  a  strict  inter 
pretation  of  the  "code"  would  have  con 
demned  his  act  as  unsportsmanlike,  if  not 
unfair  ! 

I  recall  another  incident,  connected  with 
the  building  equally  characteristic  of  the 
period.  The  United  States  Branch  Mint 
stood  very  near  it,  and  its  tall,  factory-like 
chimneys  overshadowed  my  cousin's  roof. 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    317 

Some  scandal  had  arisen  from  an  alleged 
leakage  of  gold  in  the  manipulation  of  that 
metal  during  the  various  processes  of  smelt 
ing  and  refining.  One  of  the  excuses  offered 
was  the  volatilization  of  the  pracious  metal 
and  its  escape  through  the  draft  of  the  tall 
chimneys.  All  San  Francisco  laughed  at 
this  explanation  until  it  learned  that  a  cor- 
roboration  of  the  theory  had  been  estab 
lished  by  an  assay  of  the  dust  and  grime 
of  the  roofs  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Mint. 
These  had  yielded  distinct  traces  of  gold. 
San  Francisco  stopped  laughing,  and  that 
portion  of  it  which  had  roofs  in  the  neigh 
borhood  at  once  began  prospecting.  Claims 
were  staked  out  on  these  airy  placers,  and 
my  cousin's  roof,  being  the  very  next  one 
to  the  chimney,  and  presumably  "in  the 
lead,"  was  disposed  of  to  a  speculative  com 
pany  for  a  considerable  sum.  I  remember 
my  cousin  telling  me  the  story  —  for  the 
occurrence  was  quite  recent  —  and  taking 
me  with  him  to  the  roof  to  explain  it,  but 
I  am  afraid  I  was  more  attracted  by  the 
mystery  of  the  closely  guarded  building,  and 
the  strangely  tinted  smoke  which  arose  from 
this  temple  where  money  was  actually  being 
"made,"  than  by  anything  else.  Nor  did 


318    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

I  dream  as  I  stood  there  —  a  very  lanky, 
open -mouthed  youth  —  that  only  three  or 
four  years  later  I  should  be  the  secretary 
of  its  superintendent.  In  my  more  adven 
turous  ambition  I  am  afraid  I  would  have 
accepted  the  suggestion  half-heartedly. 
Merely  to  have  helped  to  stamp  the  gold 
which  other  people  had  adventurously  found 
was  by  no  means  a  part  of  my  youthful 
dreams. 

At  the  time  of  these  earlier  impressions 
the  Chinese  had  not  yet  become  the  recog 
nized  factors  in  the  domestic  and  business 
economy  of  the  city  which  they  had  come 
to  be  when  I  returned  from  the  mines  three 
years  later.  Yet  they  were  even  then  a 
more  remarkable  and  picturesque  contrast 
to  the  bustling,  breathless,  and  brand-new 
life  of  San  Francisco  than  the  Spaniard. 
The  latter  seldom  flaunted  his  faded  dignity 
in  the  principal  thoroughfares.  "John" 
was  to  be  met  everywhere.  It  was  a  com 
mon  thing  to  see  a  long  file  of  sampan  coo 
lies  carrying  their  baskets  slung  between 
them,  on  poles,  jostling  a  modern,  well- 
dressed  crowd  in  Montgomery  Street,  or 
to  get  a  whiff  of  their  burned  punk  in  the 
side  streets ;  while  the  road  leading  to  their 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    319 

temporary  burial-ground  at  Lone  Mountain 
was  littered  with  slips  of  colored  paper 
scattered  from  their  funerals.  They  brought 
an  atmosphere  of  the  Arabian  Nights  into 
the  hard,  modern  civilization;  their  shops 
—  not  always  confined  at  that  time  to  a 
Chinese  quarter  —  were  replicas  of  the  ba 
zaars  of  Canton  and  Peking,  with  their 
quaint  display  of  little  dishes  on  which  tid 
bits  of  food  delicacies  were  exposed  for 
sale,  all  of  the  dimensions  and  unreality  of 
a  doll's  kitchen  or  a  child's  housekeeping. 

They  were  a  revelation  to  the  Eastern 
immigrant,  whose  preconceived  ideas  of 
them  were  borrowed  from  the  ballet  or  pan 
tomime  ;  they  did  not  wear  scalloped  drawers 
and  hats  with  jingling  bells  on  their  points, 
nor  did  I  ever  see  them  dance  with  their 
forefingers  vertically  extended.  They  were 
always  neatly  dressed,  even  the  commonest 
of  coolies,  and  their  festive  dresses  were 
marvels.  As  traders  they  were  grave  and 
patient;  as  servants  they  were  sad  and 
civil,  and  all  were  singularly  infantine  in 
their  natural  simplicity.  The  living  repre 
sentatives  of  the  oldest  civilization  in  the 
world,  they  seemed  like  children.  Yet  they 
kept  their  beliefs  and  sympathies  to  them- 


320    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

selves,  never  fraternizing  with  the  fanqui, 
or  foreign  devil,  or  losing  their  singular 
racial  qualities.  They  indulged  in  their 
own  peculiar  habits;  of  their  social  and 
inner  life,  San  Francisco  knew  but  little 
and  cared  less.  Even  at  this  early  period, 
and  before  I  came  to  know  them  more  in 
timately,  I  remember  an  incident  of  their 
daring  fidelity  to  their  own  customs  that 
was  accidentally  revealed  to  me.  I  had  be 
come  acquainted  with  a  Chinese  youth  of 
about  my  own  age,  as  I  imagined,  —  al 
though  from  mere  outward  appearance  it 
was  generally  impossible  to  judge  of  a 
Chinaman's  age  between  the  limits  of  sev 
enteen  and  forty  years,  —  and  he  had,  in  a 
burst  of  confidence,  taken  me  to  see  some 
characteristic  sights  in  a  Chinese  warehouse 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Plaza.  I  was 
struck  by  the  singular  circumstance  that 
while  the  warehouse  was  an  erection  of 
wood  in  the  ordinary  hasty  Californian 
style,  there  were  certain  brick  and  stone 
divisions  in  its  interior,  like  small  rooms 
or  closets,  evidently  added  by  the  China 
men  tenants.  My  companion  stopped  be 
fore  a  long,  very  narrow  entrance,  a  mere 
longitudinal  slit  in  the  brick  wall,  and  with 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    321 

a  wink  of  infantine  deviltry  motioned  me 
to  look  inside.  I  did  so,  and  saw  a  room, 
really  a  cell,  of  fair  height  but  scarcely  six 
feet  square,  and  barely  able  to  contain  a 
rude,  slanting  couch  of  stone  covered  with 
matting,  on  which  lay,  at  a  painful  angle, 
a  richly  dressed  Chinaman.  A  single 
glance  at  his  dull,  staring,  abstracted  eyes 
and  half -opened  mouth  showed  me  he  was 
in  an  opium  trance.  This  was  not  in  itself 
a  novel  sight,  and  I  was  moving  away  when 
I  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  appearance 
of  his  hands,  which  were  stretched  helplessly 
before  him  on  his  body,  and  at  first  sight 
seemed  to  be  in  a  kind  of  wicker  cage. 

I  then  saw  that  his  finger-nails  were 
seven  or  eight  inches  long,  and  were  sup 
ported  by  bamboo  splints.  Indeed,  they 
were  no  longer  human  nails,  but  twisted 
and  distorted  quills,  giving  him  the  appear 
ance  of  having  gigantic  claws.  "Velly  big 
Chinaman,"  whispered  my  cheerful  friend; 
"first-chop  man  —  high  classee  —  no  can 
washee  —  no  can  eat  —  no  dlinke,  no  catchee 
him  own  glub  allee  same  nothee  man  — 
China  boy  must  catchee  glub  for  him,  allee 
time !  Oh,  him  first-chop  man  —  you  bet- 
tee!" 


322    BOIIEMIAM  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

I  had  heard  of  this  singular  custom  of 
indicating  caste  before,  and  was  amazed  and 
disgusted,  but  I  was  not  prepared  for  what 
followed.  My  companion,  evidently  think 
ing  he  had  impressed  me,  grew  more  reck 
less  as  showman,  and  saying  to  me,  "Now 
me  showee  you  one  funny  thing  —  heap 
makee  you  laugh,"  led  me  hurriedly  across 
a  little  courtyard  swarming  with  chickens 
and  rabbits,  when  he  stopped  before  an 
other  inclosure.  Suddenly  brushing  past 
an  astonished  Chinaman  who  seemed  to  be 
standing  guard,  he  thrust  me  into  the  inclo 
sure  in  front  of  a  most  extraordinary  object. 
It  was  a  Chinaman,  wearing  a  huge,  square, 
wooden  frame  fastened  around  his  neck  like 
a  collar,  and  fitting  so  tightly  and  rigidly 
that  the  flesh  rose  in  puffy  weals  around  his 
cheeks.  He  was  chained  to  a  post,  although 
it  was  as  impossible  for  him  to  have  escaped 
with  his  wooden  cage  through  the  narrow 
doorway  as  it  was  for  him  to  lie  down  and 
rest  in  it.  Yet  I  am  bound  to  say  that  his 
eyes  and  face  expressed  nothing  but  apathy, 
and  there  was  no  appeal  to  the  sympathy 
of  the  stranger.  My  companion  said  hur 
riedly,  — 

"Velly    bad    man;    stealee    heap    from 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    323 

Chinamen,"  and  then,  apparently  alarmed 
at  his  own  indiscreet  intrusion,  hustled  me 
away  as  quickly  as  possible  amid  a  shrill 
cackling  of  protestation  from  a  few  of  his 
own  countrymen  who  had  joined  the  one 
who  was  keeping  guard.  In  another  mo 
ment  we  were  in  the  street  again  —  scarce 
a  step  from  the  Plaza,  in  the  full  light  of 
Western  civilization  —  not  a  stone's  throw 
from  the  courts  of  justice. 

My  companion  took  to  his  heels  and  left 
me  standing  there  bewildered  and  indig 
nant.  I  could  not  rest  until  I  had  told  my 
story,  but  without  betraying  my  companion, 
to  an  elder  acquaintance,  who  laid  the  facts 
before  the  police  authorities.  I  had  ex 
pected  to  be  closely  cross-examined  —  to  be 
doubted  —  to  be  disbelieved.  To  my  sur 
prise,  I  was  told  that  the  police  had  already 
cognizance  of  similar  cases  of  illegal  and 
barbarous  punishments,  but  that  the  victims 
themselves  refused  to  testify  against  their 
countrymen  —  and  it  was  impossible  to  con 
vict  or  even  to  identify  them.  "A  white 
man  can't  tell  one  Chinese  from  another, 
and  there  are  always  a  dozen  of  'em  ready 
to  swear  that  the  man  you  've  got  isn't  the 
one."  I  was  startled  to  reflect  that  I,  too, 


324    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

could  not  have  conscientiously  sworn  to 
either  jailor  or  the  tortured  prisoner  —  or 
perhaps  even  to  my  cheerful  companion. 
The  police,  on  some  pretext,  made  a  raid 
upon  the  premises  a  day  or  two  afterwards, 
but  without  result.  I  wondered  if  they  had 
caught  sight  of  the  high-class,  first-chop 
individual,  with  the  helplessly  outstretched 
fingers,  as  that  story  I  had  kept  to  myself. 

But  these  barbaric  vestiges  in  John 
Chinaman's  habits  did  not  affect  his  rela 
tions  with  the  San  Franciscans.  He  was 
singularly  peaceful,  docile,  and  harmless  as 
a  servant,  and,  with  rare  exceptions,  honest 
and  temperate.  If  he  sometimes  matched 
cunning  with  cunning,  it  was  the  flattery 
of  imitation.  He  did  most  of  the  menial 
work  of  San  Francisco,  and  did  it  cleanly. 
Except  that  he  exhaled  a  peculiar  druglike 
odor,  he  was  not  personally  offensive  in 
domestic  contact,  and  by  virtue  of  being 
the  recognized  laundryman  of  the  whole 
community  his  own  blouses  were  always 
freshly  washed  and  ironed.  His  conversa 
tional  reserve  arose,  not  from  his  having  to 
deal  with  an  unfamiliar  language,  —  for  he 
had  picked  up  a  picturesque  and  varied 
vocabulary  with  ease,  —  but  from  his  natural 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    325 

temperament.  He  was  devoid  of  curiosity, 
and  utterly  unimpressed  by  anything  but 
the  purely  business  concerns  of  those  he 
served.  Domestic  secrets  were  safe  with 
him ;  his  indifference  to  your  thoughts,  ac 
tions,  and  feelings  had  all  the  contempt 
which  his  three  thousand  years  of  history 
and  his  innate  belief  in  your  inferiority 
seemed  to  justify.  He  was  blind  and  deaf 
in  your  household  because  you  did  n't  inter 
est  him  in  the  least.  It  was  said  that  a 
gentleman,  who  wished  to  test  his  impas- 
siveness,  arranged  with  his  wife  to  come 
home  one  day  and,  in  the  hearing  of  his 
Chinese  waiter  —  who  was  more  than  usually 
intelligent  —  to  disclose  with  well-simulated 
emotion  the  details  of  a  murder  he  had  just 
committed.  He  did  so.  The  Chinaman 
heard  it  without  a  sign  of  horror  or  atten 
tion  even  to  the  lifting  of  an  eyelid,  but 
continued  his  duties  unconcerned.  Unfor 
tunately,  the  gentleman,  in  order  to  increase 
the  horror  of  the  situation,  added  that  now 
there  was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  cut 
his  throat.  At  this  John  quietly  left  the 
room.  The  gentleman  was  delighted  at  the 
success  of  his  ruse  until  the  door  reopened 
and  John  reappeared  with  his  master's 


326    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

razor,  which  he  quietly  slipped  —  as  if  it 
had  been  a  forgotten  fork  —  beside  his  mas 
ter's  plate,  and  calmly  resumed  his  serving. 
I  have  always  considered  this  story  to  be 
quite  as  improbable  as  it  was  inartistic, 
from  its  tacit  admission  of  a  certain  interest 
on  the  part  of  the  Chinaman.  I  never 
knew  one  who  would  have  been  sufficiently 
concerned  to  go  for  the  razor. 

His  taciturnity  and  reticence  may  have 
been  confounded  with  rudeness  of  address, 
although  he  was  always  civil  enough.  "I 
see  you  have  listened  to  me  and  done  ex 
actly  what  I  told  you,"  said  a  lady,  com 
mending  some  performance  of  her  servant 
after  a  previous  lengthy  lecture;  "that's 
very  nice."  "Yes,"  said  John  calmly,  "you 
talkee  allee  time;  talkee  allee  too  much." 
"I  always  find  Ling  very  polite,"  said  an 
other  lady,  speaking  of  her  cook,  "but  I 
wish  he  did  not  always  say  to  me,  '  Good 
night,  John,'  in  a  high  falsetto  voice." 
She  had  not  recognized  the  fact  that  he  was 
simply  repeating  her  own  salutation  with 
his  marvelous  instinct  of  relentless  imita 
tion,  even  as  to  voice.  I  hesitate  to  record 
the  endless  stories  of  his  misapplication  of 
that  faculty  which  were  then  current,  from 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    327 

the  one  of  the  laundryman  who  removed 
the  buttons  from  the  shirts  that  were  sent 
to  him  to  wash  that  they  might  agree  with 
the  condition  of  the  one  offered  him  as  a 
pattern  for  "doing  up,"  to  that  of  the 
unfortunate  employer  who,  while  showing 
John  how  to  handle  valuable  china  care 
fully,  had  the  misfortune  to  drop  a  plate 
himself  —  an  accident  which  was  followed 
by  the  prompt  breaking  of  another  by  the 
neophyte,  with  the  addition  of  "Oh,  hel- 
lee ! "  in  humble  imitation  of  his  master. 
I  have  spoken  of  his  general  cleanliness ; 
I  am  reminded  of  one  or  two  exceptions, 
which  I  think,  however,  were  errors  of 
zeal.  His  manner  of  sprinkling  clothes  in 
preparing  them  for  ironing  was  peculiar. 
He  would  fill  his  mouth  with  perfectly  pure 
water  from  a  glass  beside  him,  and  then, 
by  one  dexterous  movement  of  his  lips  in 
a  prolonged  expiration,  squirt  the  water  in 
an  almost  invisible  misty  shower  on  the 
article  before  him.  Shocking  as  this  was 
at  first  to  the  sensibilities  of  many  Ameri 
can  employers,  it  was  finally  accepted,  and 
even  commended.  It  was  some  time  after 
this  that  the  mistress  of  a  household,  ad 
miring  the  deft  way  in  which  her  cook  had 


328    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

spread  a  white  sauce  on  certain  dishes,  was 
cheerfully  informed  that  the  method  was 
"allee  same." 

His  recreations  at  that  time  were  chiefly 
gambling,  for  the  Chinese  theatre  wherein 
the  latter  produced  his  plays  (which  lasted 
for  several  months  and  comprised  the  events 
of  a  whole  dynasty)  was  not  yet  built.  But 
he  had  one  or  two  companies  of  jugglers 
who  occasionally  performed  also  at  Ameri 
can  theatres.  I  remember  a  singular  inci 
dent  which  attended  the  debut  of  a  newly 
arrived  company.  It  seemed  that  the  com 
pany  had  been  taken  on  their  Chinese  repuv 
tation  solely,  and  there  had  been  no  pre 
vious  rehearsal  before  the  American  stage 
manager.  The  theatre  was  filled  with  an 
audience  of  decorous  and  respectable  San 
Franciscans  of  both  sexes.  It  was  sud 
denly  emptied  in  the  middle  of  the  perform 
ance;  the  curtain  came  down  with  an 
alarmed  and  blushing  manager  apologizing 
to  deserted  benches,  and  the  show  abruptly 
terminated.  Exactly  what  had  happened 
never  appeared  in  the  public  papers,  nor  in 
the  published  apology  of  the  manager.  It 
afforded  a  few  days'  mirth  for  wicked  San 
Francisco,  and  it  was  epigrammatically 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    329 

summed  up  in  the  remark  that  "no  woman 
could  be  found  in  San  Francisco  who  was 
at  that  performance,  and  no  man  who  was 
not."  Yet  it  was  alleged  even  by  John's 
worst  detractors  that  he  was  innocent  of 
any  intended  offense.  Equally  innocent, 
but  perhaps  more  morally  instructive,  was 
an  incident  that  brought  his  career  as  a 
singularly  successful  physician  to  a  disas 
trous  close.  An  ordinary  native  Chinese 
doctor,  practicing  entirely  among  his  own 
countrymen,  was  reputed  to  have  made  ex 
traordinary  cures  with  two  or  three  Ameri 
can  patients.  With  no  other  advertising 
than  this,  and  apparently  no  other  induce 
ment  offered  to  the  public  than  what  their 
curiosity  suggested,  he  was  presently  be 
sieged  by  hopeful  and  eager  sufferers. 
Hundreds  of  patients  were  turned  away 
from  his  crowded  doors.  Two  interpreters 
sat,  day  and  night,  translating  the  ills  of 
ailing  San  Francisco  to  this  medical  oracle, 
and  dispensing  his  prescriptions  —  usually 
small  powders  —  in  exchange  for  current 
coin.  In  vain  the  regular  practitioners 
pointed  out  that  the  Chinese  possessed  no 
superior  medical  knowledge,  and  that  their 
religion,  which  proscribed  dissection  and 


330    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

autopsies,  naturally  limited  their  under 
standing  of  the  body  into  which  they  put 
their  drugs.  Finally  they  prevailed  upon 
an  eminent  Chinese  authority  to  give  them 
a  list  of  the  remedies  generally  used  in  the 
Chinese  pharmacopoaia,  and  this  was  pri 
vately  circulated.  For  obvious  reasons  I 
may  not  repeat  it  here.  But  it  was  summed 
up  —  again  after  the  usual  Calif ornian  epi 
grammatic  style  —  by  the  remark  that 
"whatever  were  the  comparative  merits  of 
Chinese  and  American  practice,  a  simple 
perusal  of  the  list  would  prove  that  the 
Chinese  were  capable  of  producing  the  most 
powerful  emetic  known."  The  craze  sub 
sided  in  a  single  day;  the  interpreters  and 
their  oracle  vanished;  the  Chinese  doctors' 
signs,  which  had  multiplied,  disappeared, 
and  San  Francisco  awoke  cured  of  its  mad 
ness,  at  the  cost  of  some  thousand  dollars. 

My  Bohemian  wanderings  were  confined 
to  the  limits  of  the  city,  for  the  very  good 
reason  that  there  was  little  elsewhere  to  go. 
San  Francisco  was  then  bounded  on  one 
side  by  the  monotonously  restless  waters  of 
the  bay,  and  on  the  other  by  a  stretch  of 
equally  restless  and  monotonously  shifting 
sand  dunes  as  far  as  the  Pacific  shore. 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    331 

Two  roads  penetrated  this  waste:  one  to 
Lone  Mountain  —  the  cemetery;  the  other 
to  the  Cliff  House  —  happily  described  as 
"an  eight-mile  drive  with  a  cocktail  at  the 
end  of  it."  Nor  was  the  humor  entirely 
confined  to  this  felicitous  description.  The 
Cliff  House  itself,  half  restaurant,  half 
drinking  saloon,  fronting  the  ocean  and  the 
Seal  Rock,  where  disporting  seals  were  the 
chief  object  of  interest,  had  its  own  pecul 
iar  symbol.  The  decanters,  wine-glasses, 
and  tumblers  at  the  bar  were  all  engraved 
in  old  English  script  with  the  legal  initials 
"L.  S."  (Locus  Sigilli),  —  "t}iQ  place  of 
the  seal." 

On  the  other  hand,  Lone  Mountain,  a 
dreary  promontory  giving  upon  the  Golden 
Gate  and  its  striking  sunsets,  had  little 
to  soften  its  weird  suggestiveness.  As  the 
common  goal  of  the  successful  and  unsuc 
cessful,  the  carved  and  lettered  shaft  of  the 
man  who  had  made  a  name,  and  the  staring 
blank  headboard  of  the  man  who  had  none, 
climbed  the  sandy  slopes  together.  I  have 
seen  the  funerals  of  the  respectable  citizen 
who  had  died  peacefully  in  his  bed,  and  the 
notorious  desperado  who  had  died  "with 
his  boots  on,"  followed  by  an  equally  iin- 

\\ 


332    BOHEMIAN  DAYS   IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

pressive  cortege  of  sorrowing  friends,  and 
often  the  self -same  priest.  But  more  awful 
than  its  barren  loneliness  was  the  utter  ab 
sence  of  peacefulness  and  rest  in  this  dismal 
promontory.  By  some  wicked  irony  of  its 
situation  and  climate  it  was  the  personifica 
tion  of  unrest  and  change.  The  incessant 
trade  winds  carried  its  loose  sands  hither 
and  thither,  uncovering  the  decaying  coffins 
of  early  pioneers,  to  bury  the  wreaths  and 
flowers,  laid  on  a  grave  of  to-day,  under 
their  obliterating  waves.  No  tree  to  shade 
them  from  the  glaring  sky  above  could  live 
in  those  winds,  no  turf  would  lie  there  to 
resist  the  encroaching  sand  below.  The 
dead  were  harried  and  hustled  even  in  their 
graves  by  the  persistent  sun,  the  unremit 
ting  wind,  and  the  unceasing  sea.  The  de 
parting  mourner  saw  the  contour  of  the 
very  mountain  itself  change  with  the  shift 
ing  dunes  as  he  passed,  and  his  last  look 
beyond  rested  on  the  hurrying,  eager  waves 
forever  hastening  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

If  I  were  asked  to  say  what  one  thing 
impressed  me  as  the  dominant  and  charac 
teristic  note  of  San  Francisco,  I  should  say 
it  was  this  untiring  presence  of  sun  and 
wind  and  sea.  They  typified,  even  if  they 


BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO    333 

were  not,  as  I  sometimes  fancied,  the  actual 
incentive  to  the  fierce,  restless  life  of  the 
city.  I  could  not  think  of  San  Francisco 
without  the  trade  winds;  I  could  not  ima 
gine  its  strange,  incongruous,  multigenerous 
procession  marching  to  any  other  music. 
They  were  always  there  in  my  youthful  re 
collections;  they  were  there  in  my  more 
youthful  dreams  of  the  past  as  the  myste 
rious  vientes  generates  that  blew  the  Philip 
pine  galleons  home. 

For  six  months  they  blew  from  the  north 
west,  for  six  months  from  the  southwest, 
with  unvarying  persistency.  They  were 
there  every  morning,  glittering  in  the 
equally  persistent  sunlight,  to  chase  the 
San  Franciscan  from  his  slumber;  they 
were  there  at  midday,  to  stir  his  pulses  with 
their  beat;  they  were  there  again  at  night, 
to  hurry  him  through  the  bleak  and  flaring 
gas -lit  streets  to  bed.  They  left  their  mark 
on  every  windward  street  or  fence  or  gable, 
on  the  outlying  sand  dunes;  they  lashed 
the  slow  coasters  home,  and  hurried  them 
to  sea  again;  they  whipped  the  bay  into 
turbulence  on  their  way  to  Contra  Costa, 
whose  level  shoreland  oaks  they  had  trimmed 
to  windward  as  cleanly  and  sharply  as  with 


334    BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO 

a  priming-shears.  Untiring  themselves, 
they  allowed  no  laggards;  they  drove  the 
San  Franciscan  from  the  wall  against  which 
he  would  have  leaned,  from  the  scant  shade 
in  which  at  noontide  he  might  have  rested. 
They  turned  his  smallest  fires  into  confla 
grations,  and  kept  him  ever  alert,  watchful, 
and  eager.  In  return,  they  scavenged  his 
city  and  held  it  clean  and  wholesome;  in 
summer  they  brought  him  the  soft  sea-fog 
for  a  few  hours  to  soothe  his  abraded  sur 
faces;  in  winter  they  brought  the  rains  and 
dashed  the  whole  coast-line  with  flowers, 
and  the  staring  sky  above  it  with  soft,  un 
wonted  clouds.  They  were  always  there  — 
strong,  vigilant,  relentless,  material,  un 
yielding,  triumphant. 


Eltctrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &•  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


BOOKS   BY   BRET   HARTE 


STORIES     IN     LIGHT     AND     SHADOW 

i6mo,  $1.25 

CLARENCE i6mo,  #1.25 

IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS  i6mo,  $1.25 
BARKER'S  LUCK,  AND  OTHER  STORIES  i6mo,  $1.25 
THREE  PARTNERS;  OR,  THE  BIG 

STRIKE  ON  HEAVY-TREE  HILL  i6mo,  $1.25 
TALES  OF  TRAIL  AND  TOWN  .  i6mo,  $1.25 
ON  THE  FRONTIER.  Stories.  .  i8mo,  $1.00 
BY  SHORE  AND  SEDGE  .  .  .  i8mo,  jjji.oo 

MARUJA.      A  Novel i8mo,  $1.00 

SNOW-BOUND  AT  EAGLE'S.     .      i8mo,  $1.00 
A     MILLIONAIRE     OF     ROUGH-AND- 
READY,  AND  DEVIL'S  FORD  .      i8mo,  $1.00 
A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS      .      .      i8mo,  $1.00 
A     PHYLLIS    OF   THE    SIERRAS,    AND 

DRIFT  FROM  REDWOOD  CAMP.  i8mo,  $1.00 
THE    ARGONAUTS    OF    NORTH    LIB 
ERTY    i8mo,  $1.00 

THE    CRUSADE    OF    THE    EXCELSIOR. 

Illustrated     .      .      .      i6mo,  $1.25  $   paper,  50  cents 

CRESSY i6mo,  $1.25 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  DEDLOW  MARSH, 

AND  OTHER  TALES l6mo,  $1.25 

A  WARD  OF  THE  GOLDEN  GATE  i6mo, 

$1.25  5   paper,  50  cents 
A    SAPPHO    OF    GREEN    SPRINGS,  AND 

OTHER  STORIES  .  i6mo,  $1.25  ;  paper,  50  cents 
A  FIRST  FAMILY  OF  TASAJARA  i6mo,  $1.25 
COLONEL  STARBOTTLE'S  CLIENT,  AND 

SOME  OTHER  PEOPLE  .  .  .  i6mo,  $1.25 
SUSY.  A  Story  of  the  Plains.  l6mo,  $1.25  ;  paper, 

50  cents 

SALLY  DOWS,  AND  OTHER  STORIES  .  i6mo,  $1.25 
A  PROTEGEE  OF  JACK  HAMLIN'S,  AND 

OTHER  STORIES i6mo,  $1.25 

FROM  SAND  HILL  TO  PINE  .  i6mo,  $1.25 
OPENINGS  IN  THE  OLD  TRAIL  i6mo,  $1.25 


HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


BOOKS    BY   BRET   HARTE 


UNDER    THE    REDWOODS.    .      .      .i6mo,  #1.25 
MR.  JACK  HAMLIN'S  MEDIATION,  AND 

OTHF.R   STORIES i6mo,  $1.25 

THE    BELL-RINGER    OF    ANGEL'S    AND 

OTHER  STORIES i6mo,  $1.25 

THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE.     .      .      i8mo,  $1.00 
DRIFT  FROM  TWO  SHORES       .      i8mo,  $1.00 
THE    LUCK    OF  ROARING   CAMP,   AND 
OTHER   STORIES.      i6mo,   $1.25.      In  River 
side  Aldine  Series $1.00 

MRS.   SKAGGS'S  HUSBANDS,  AND  OTHER 

SKETCHES i6mo,  $1.25 

TALES  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS,  AND  OTHER 

SKETCHES i6mo,  $1.25 

THANKFUL  BLOSSOM  ....      i8mo,  JRl.oo 
THE   TWINS    OF    TABLE    MOUNTAIN, 

AND  OTHER  STORIES i8mo,  $1.00 

FLIP,  AND  FOUND  AT  BLAZING  STAR. 

Two  Stories i8mo,  $1.00 

IN  THE  CARQUINEZ  WOODS    .      i8mo,  #1.00 
TWO    MEN    OF    SANDY    BAR.     A  Play. 

i8mo,  $1.00 

Riverside  Edition.  With  Portrait  and  Introduc 
tion.  6  vols.  crown  8vo,  each,  $2.00.  The 
set $12.00 

The  last  eight  books  mentioned  above  are  in 
cluded  in  this  edition. 

1.  POETICAL  WORKS,  TWO  MEN  OF  SANDY 

BAR. 

2.  THE    LUCK    OF    ROARING    CAMP    AND 

OTHER   STORIES,  A  PORTION  OF  THE 
TALES  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS,  ETC. 

3.  TALES  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS,  AND  EAST 

ERN  SKETCHES. 

4.  GABRIEL  CONROY. 

5.  STORIES  AND  CONDENSED  NOVELS. 

6.  FRONTIER  STORIES. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


3Apr'59BB 

P?  C^M  Vu/*      \^J        V*»  ma*r 

A  r  '        i     r  r"Q 

MAY  3  0  1998 

&g«ife'5'                u^^gSSt-i. 

YB  75625 

U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


COhlBEElE? 


989 


